


House of 1000 Curses

by Elle Gray (Elle_Gray)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Affection, Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Auror Trainer Harry Potter, Awkwardness, Ball Gag, Banter, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Bohemian Rhapsody, Boys Kissing, Competent Draco Malfoy, Conjured Lube, Consent, Curse Breaker Draco Malfoy, Dad Draco Malfoy, Dad Harry Potter, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Duelling, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings Realization, Flavored Lube, Forced Cohabitation, Forced Proximity, Frottage, Ghosts, Grey Joggers, H/D Erised 2019, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Haunted Houses, Helpful Work Wives, Inappropriate Erections, Intergluteal Sex, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Omg there was only one bed, Oral Sex, Overthinking, POV Alternating, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, POV Harry Potter, Pineapples, Poltergeists, Porn with Feelings, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Powerful Harry Potter, Queen - Freeform, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, References to Depression, References to Postpartum Despression, References to Premature Birth, Reluctant Colleagues to Lovers, Sarcasm, Separated Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed, Shower Sex, Snark, Switching, Therapy, Voyeurism, Wandless Magic, Widowed Draco Malfoy, Wordless Magic, forced bondage, forced gagging, mild kink shaming, minor slut shaming, references to pregnancy, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 59,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Gray/pseuds/Elle%20Gray
Summary: Auror Trainers, Harry, Millicent and Lisa arrive with two minibuses full of new recruits to the Devonshire Manor that will be their home and training ground for the next few days… and find it haunted. By a poltergeist. With issues. And… interests. Cue Curse-Breaker Malfoy and his team trying to fix things, an unfortunate set of circumstances that keeps Malfoy from going home, and a very thirsty, very naughty poltergeist... It’s funny, it’s sexy, and it’s a perfectly reasonable size, but we brought extra lube anyway.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 142
Kudos: 613
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	1. PROLOGUE: They're here!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaesterChill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/gifts).



> Thanks to my two beautiful betas, my RL writing buddy, and the support crew. And Jake Bass. All chapter titles are from the 1982 film Poltergeist (except Chapter 13 which is from Poltergeist 2).
> 
> Maesterchill. Where do I start? I liked your sense of humour already, but reading your sign-up sheet made me feel positively Puckish. I imagined Grace reading the word "ridiculous" and saying, "I know exactly who you're getting. Hold onto your knickers." So I hope you like it as much as I want you to. 
> 
> Also, a word of warning to everyone. During the beta phase of this monster-osity, some women were known to laugh spontaneously in public, so choose your reading place with care.

**_Harry_ **

One day I might overcome the indignity of this. Maybe. So long as I'm allowed to _Obliviate_ my colleagues and myself, and pretend I live a life where I don't have pants-related accidents at work.

I suppose we could use a Time-Turner, it’s less invasive and I’m sure the Ministry has one somewhere. Hermione would know, she’s a bit of an authority on them. I’d only need someone to go back far enough that they could stop me at the door so I didn’t come inside this shithole of a house. I think it might be illegal to fuck around with time though, I can't remember. 

I guess some very careful _Obliviation_ might be my only shot. If I can get my hands on a real expert, someone from “downstairs”, an Unspeakable, they could even create new, nice, non-traumatic memories to cover these regrettable, horrible, mentally-scarring ones. The ones where my dick betrays me and I come in my pants in front of my former schoolmate, current friend, and colleague ⏤ the delightfully judgemental Lisa Turpin.

So it's definitely _physically_ possible to fix the whole thing; I'm even pretty sure it's within the Ministry's acceptable uses of _Obliviation_ (unlike that time in Prague), so none of us are going to to be able to legitimately withhold consent this time. Not even Lisa. Even though she admitted that she enjoyed part of this morning's drama, she then had to observe certain parts of my own anatomy enjoying it and I think, overall, she'd have rather not. Especially not with her heightened sense of smell at the time. We're close, but only from the waist up. It's mostly academic. 

Anyway. She's insisting it's partly her fault, and she's been very apologetic so far. She brought me tea. I wish she'd stop looking at my trousers though.

I wish my trousers weren't worth looking at.

I stay hunched over in my chair and fantasise about _Obliviation_ and the potential joy of not remembering any of what’s happened, right from when we arrived in Devon.

No, that’s not fair. Maybe just from when we arrived here at Longwood Manor, all the way up 'til now, sitting in the Operations Room trying to hide my crotch. Though… that might be confusing for my _Obliviated_ self if we can’t get the Unspeakable. Maybe I should start erasing from when I went into my assigned room. That's where it started, apparently. That's where everyone else's stuff started, anyway. So just from then 'til now. Someone could just fill in the gap by telling me there was a memory hex on the door handle or something.

That wouldn't explain why everyone else is on edge though. I'd worry it was my fault. I guess I could just erase the last part, seeing Lisa and then her touching me, and… that thing that happened directly after that. Except then I'd have a memory that had me walking up to her door, a blank space, and then being here, with my trousers tented like a campground and a faint tightness to my skin like I've been recently _Scourgified_. That'd suggest something had happened with _her_ and I'd get curious. I want to not be curious. Or erect. I also want to never remember how it felt to have her rub against my leg... especially not _now_ , I decide, as my cock gives another hearty throb. Right. No thinking 'til help arrives and I have control of myself again. 

Of course, the team of Curse-Breakers that turn up to do the helping are the same ones who set up this place last night. Which makes perfect sense, since we don't actually have two teams of CBs, one for days and one for nights, we just have one team for days plus occasional extras like last night's overtime. Which means coming back here is probably something they're pretty annoyed about. Especially since whatever they did hasn't worked… or whatever they did, did work, but has been meddled with overnight and they'll have to do it again. Either that or they planned this and I'll kill them. Malfoy especially. I’ll kill him first. Maybe I'll stab him through the eye with my dick.

He walks in just as I’m considering whether I could do enough damage to his brain that way. He's in a grey three-piece suit with a haughty expression on his face like we've interrupted him, and how dare we. His team slip into the room behind him and let him do all the talking, which is probably normal since he does seem to prefer the sound of his own voice. 

He takes in Millicent's summary of events, almost expressionless ‘til it comes to me. To my problem. My curse that no one's been able to fix. My Long-standing Issue, Ever-present Erection, Steadfast Stiffy, the bane of my trousers. The curse I'll be cursed to remember for the rest of my life… Because with the way he's looking down at me, that smug quirk of his mouth, there's no way I'm going to be allowed to forget this.


	2. Look, something's funny going on here next door

**_Draco_ **

The call reaches me just as I'm starting work on a Mesopotamian gauntlet that's been sitting in my “maybe on a quiet afternoon” pile for about six months. The bell chimes seven whole times while I studiously ignore it before the green flames flare and a familiar head bursts through the wards. 

'Draco, don't you dare ignore me, we have a fucking situation.'

'Hello Millicent, so nice to hear from you, please do tell me all about your day.'

'Shut up, you overbred twat-racket, and get your troupe of helpful weirdos to the training ground. Whatever the fuck you set up yesterday is utterly banjaxed and I have a personal bone to pick with you when you're done explaining to Potter why all the recruits have turned into snakes.'

'Snakes?' I look up, curiosity piqued. 'All of them?'

'We'll explain when you get here.'

'How could they all have got caught in the same curse?' I wonder aloud. 'There must be a dozen of them. Nothing we set up is strong enough. Besides which, you _know_ I don’t use animal Transfiguration.' I give her a look.

'Fine. Only a third of them are snakes. But another third were naked and touching each other and the other third were very sleepy.'

'Exactly thirds?' I place my tiny silver pick on the workbench, a safe distance from the gauntlet.

'Eighteen recruits, divided evenly over three rooms, so six per room.'

'Each room had a different curse?'

'Yes.' She rolls her eyes. 'Incidentally, so did the instructors’ rooms, and I'd have taken enchanted sleep over what _actually_ happened, just in case you haven't fully understood my fucking ire.'

I sigh and slump back in my chair. This job will be the end of me. Eleven hours we'd put in yesterday, setting up that godforsaken new training hovel, and Potter's managed to fuck it up already. I'd missed dumpling night last night — Scorpius' favourite — and he'd not forgiven me even this morning, after making crêpes. In the shape of _dragons_. I'm in terrible trouble, and if I end up late home tonight as well, my darling three-year-old might not speak to me again until he needs his Hogsmeade permission slip signed.

'Fine. I'll get the others.' I flick my wand in a zigzag and shoot a wispy net of protective magic around the gauntlet. Hopefully we'll be back in a couple hours and I can keep trying to untangle the lock on it. Troublesome thing.

'Bring a change of clothes,' Millicent says by way of goodbye and I freeze part way out of my chair. My optimism wavers.

'I'm sorry, what?'

'Trust me, this house is a Health & Safety nightmare and we're in worst-case-scenario mode over here.'

'If I— what on earth is going on?' I huff. 'I'm not setting foot in that house until you tell me — I resigned from courting death four years ago and I'm not waltzing back into danger to rescue a bunch of Aurors who should be capable of looking after themselves.'

'Draco, darling. No one's dead, it's all just very inconvenient and embarrassing.'

'Millicent, I am a _father_ — I have responsibilities, and there are expectations, and I have commitments I need to adhere to. I need to make it home in one piece.'

'Commitments like the one where you took on the role of setting up skills exercises for the Auror training program? Because they like it when that’s done in a way that doesn't _damage_ the recruits. There's an awful lot of paperwork involved when they start touching each other inappropriately. Or are snakes.'

'I _did_ set up that house,’ I say. ' _Flawlessly._ I don't think I should be responsible for whatever Potter's done to it.'

'Harry didn't do anything to it, you pompous tit — he got the worst of it, _trust me._ '

'I highly doubt he's innocent in any of this,’ I say. Potter’s unanimously well-regarded and obscenely decorated but no amount of medals is going to disguise the fact that he’s still a blast-first-do-the-research-later sort of a chap. ‘He literally blew up the last house you used.'

'Well, this time he didn't. Now stop frittering and get over here. This isn't going to unfuck itself.' Her expression softens at my scowl. 'Come _on,_ this is literally your job.'

'Fine. Go away. I'll be there soon,' I say. 'Don't _touch_ anything,' I snap as she disappears, and it'll serve her right if she doesn't listen. Let her be covered in boils.

I stare into the fireplace for a long moment after the flames have turned back to a normal orange. This is not ideal.

~

If I'm honest, Potter does look slightly pale when I arrive at the house. Traumatised, almost. Dehydrated. He doesn't even look up when the four of us enter the Operations Room, instead staying hunched over in his armchair, staring pointedly at the ground. 

Millicent directs me to a chair and launches into a detailed explanation of what happened. She's very thorough, as usual, which I always appreciate, though I notice she leaves out mentioning what nefarious curse had besieged Potter and taken away his nauseating swagger. 

'We left this place immaculately set up,' I state. 'We have photographs.'

'And yet… something happened.'

There's a pause in which Millicent and I glare at each other, a not-unheard-of measuring of stubbornness that had meant a fair few _incidents_ growing up, but nowadays is more a reminder that we are collectively formidable. It’s increasingly rare that we disagree on things, though when things involve Potter, the likelihood is somewhat greater. 

'Something happened after we left, then,' I insist. 'This isn't our fault.'

'We aren't blaming you,' Potter pipes up from the corner, Millicent's retort nipped in the bud. Even when he's quiet and staring at his shoes, everyone listens to him. 'We just want some insight on what might have happened between eight o'clock last night and ten thirty this morning. It's fairly obvious you didn't rig the house up to mess with us, but someone did, and we need to know if it's dangerous and we have to cancel the whole exercise or if we can salvage some sort of teaching experience.'

'Can we unpack that a bit, please?' I sit back in my chair. 'For one, how do you know when we left here last night? Two, if it's so obvious we aren't at fault, why are you whining to us? And three, if you think this house is dangerous, why are we still _sitting in it?_ '

'I signed off on your overtime this morning; I know it wasn't you because you would never use sexually inappropriate curses as a joke — it wouldn't be _proper_ ,' Potter says, like he's mentally checking points off on his fingers. 'And I _don't_ think it is dangerous, but _you're_ the expert and I want you to be sure before I keep a a bunch of kids here for the rest of the week and risk their wellbeing.' Here he gives me a look that's mildly challenging. 

I shift in my seat, discomforted. 'You sign off on my overtime?'

'As it pertains to this, yes.'

Right. Of course he did, he was in charge of the first year training programme. He'd come out of the field before I had, around the same time his first son had been born. Back then, I'd expected it was at the young Mrs Potter's behest, but since becoming a father myself I've developed such an inflamed sense of my own mortality, I no longer assume that that's true. In fact, since becoming a father, a lot about my opinions on the world have changed. As, it seems, have Potter's. He seems to be exhibiting… caution. Forethought. Logic. Unprecedented care in the face of danger and, apparently, in the face of sexual inappropriateness?

'There have been sexually inappropriate curses, other than the one that made one room of recruits all touch each other?'

'Yes.' He won't meet my eye.

'Care to elaborate?'

'Once I know you're here to help and not just to mock me, yes.'

Something had happened to _him_? Good.

'Very well. I can't exactly fault you for being uncharacteristically sensible for once in your life. We'll do a thorough sweep and let you know what we find. So you're going to have to get out.'

'Out? Now?'

'Yes, now; I have things to do this evening.' I look around at Millicent and, surprisingly, Lisa bloody Turpin. Evidently Auror life hadn't been for her either. 'Now, tell me what else you know.'

~

They had already told me everything, it turned out, except for the state of Potter's cock. Which had been… complicated. Somehow, while his recruits were being sent into enchanted sleep, or tactile euphoria, or turned temporarily into snakes (and how blatantly phallic was that) Potter was floundering under his own curse. Slower acting, in a way, because it relied on further external… stimuli. Not so noticeable, initially. Not until he'd come across a room of languidly gyrating 19-21 year olds, and then another room full of what was essentially sentient green cocks seething in a mass of confused Parseltongue. And then when he went looking for help, Millicent, inexplicably leather-clad and hiding in her room trying to dislodge her new, magically-fastened corset. And Lisa, who had, as a tiger, rubbed herself against his bare leg and made him come in his pants. He was on a hair trigger. Still was when we arrived. Which explained the hunched posture and inability to look anyone in the eye. 

I'd eased his suffering once I'd been informed of it. With magic, of course. A simple counter-curse. And a sneaky, comradely _Scourgify_ tacked on the end for good measure. Well, honestly, the thought of being in the same room as any traces of his semen was weirding me out and it needed to be gone for my own sanity. Then we'd kicked all the Aurors (and baby Aurors) out of the house and sent them down to the pub and away from us. 

We had a job to do. ASAP, or I'd miss dinner.

'Shall we take the same route through we did last night, Mr Malfoy?' Ziya asks, resigned to repeating the work we'd all already done — in the last 24 hours no less.

'I think we need to figure out why this happened first,' I muse. 'We warded this place to within an inch of Azkaban last night. No one could've got in. And Potter seems sure none of his lot messed with it. Which — if he isn't lying — means something happened between us leaving and them arriving. And that means that either the house itself is sentient and displeased, or…'

'Or what?' she asks.

'Or,' I say, knowing my little team of Curse-Breakers won't like it, 'something was already here while we were.'

'Oh.' Ziya cringes. 'So we're calling Mildred?'

'Yes, we're calling Mildred.'

'There was a house back on the road as well,' Taf pipes up. 'Very well kept garden by the looks of it. Net curtains. No trees blocking the view, if you get my meaning. Shall I?' 

'Yes, take Ziya. You'll look less threatening with her since she's so small. Bertram, you can stay here.'

'Which leaves us to contact the mothership, then, young Malfoy,' Bert says. 'Allow me the honours, I do like Miss Mildred.'

'Be my guest, old man.' I do not like Mildred, Bert is my living saviour. The woman is seven times creepier than any nonagenarian has the right to be, ghost-hunter or not.

'We'll be back soon, boss,' Taf says as they tug on Ziya's sleeve to get her moving. 'Don't have fun without us.'

'Seems terrifically unlikely. I shouldn't worry about missing anything.' I turn my attention to the fireplace, where Bert is rummaging for some Floo powder amongst the bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece. 

I can't help wondering if he should be doing that when the house is a bit of a hazard at the moment. Maybe it won't be Floo powder he finds, maybe it'll be Instant Darkness Powder and we'll be stuck where we are until Potter comes to rescue us. How dreadful. Even just thinking about it raises my hackles.

'Bertram, perhaps we should use our own Floo powder?' I suggest, and slip a hand into my magically expanded (and lightened) pocket, summoning a small tin box into my palm with an inaudible slap. 'Goodness know what else this house is capable of, so best we not touch anything until we're sure what's going on.'

'Not really one for adventure, are you, young Malfoy?'

'Not when it involves animal Transfiguration, the mimicry of party drugs, or inappropriate sexual conduct. None of those are on my bucket list.'

'Crossed them off already have we?'

'I _was_ once turned into a ferret. Most unpleasant.'

'Hmm.' Bertram smirks.

I ignore the implication, dirty old bastard, and toss a pinch of powder into the grate. The flames whoosh and settle into a lush green anemone of magic. Bert, despite his age, kneels without too much trouble (on a cushion though) and sticks his head in, calling out for Mildred's sitting room. It's not long before I can hear their muffled conversation and I try to be patient while the elderly take their time getting to the point.

Eventually, Bert backs out of the flames and creaks to his feet, brushing off his knees with a wave of casual magic.

'She'll be through in a tick, just changing her cardigan to be fit for seeing people.'

I make a non-committal sound and take a seat. Merlin knows how long it takes an elderly woman to find just the right cardigan. Potter's thirty and has never found clothes that even fit him properly. Not that I'm thinking about him or his fascinating sex curse.

~

By the time Mildred arrives, Taf and Ziya are back and have somehow managed to procure tea. I reckon Taf probably used their Muggle phone to call a cafe back home and then had them pop it through the Floo downstairs. Either way, I'm not complaining — I get tea and no one had to go in the shiny, knifey kitchen of a potentially haunted house and risk their skin by boiling water.

Mildred is at least mid-nineties, and the best in her field by about thirty years and seventeen special service medals. She can pick a ghost from a mile off by sniffing the air, some say. Others reckon she was born with a few extra cones and she can actually see them, even when they don’t want to be seen. I can't think of a worse talent to have; ghosts give me the heebie jeebies, and I wish I didn't end up having to deal with them quite so often. Curse-Breaking was meant to be ghost-free. The brochure lied.

At least Mildred is in charge now, though, and I don't have to be at the front of the group while we're moving around the house. She shuffles ahead of me with her walking stick and her wand; her equally creepy familiar cawing on her frail shoulder. Its claws look like they're puncturing her, but maybe it's a really thick cardigan that she's chosen for our little hunting trip. 

We sweep the house top to bottom, checking every room, cupboard, corridor and trapdoor. Mildred makes little frowny noises and the growing disapproval on her face is almost intriguing. At least she doesn't look spooked. Taf and Ziya, behind me, are huddled together, arms linked and wands out. I can't deny having my wand in my hand, but at least I'm hiding it in my pocket. Don't want to scare the young ones. Bert, of course, doesn't look remotely perturbed at all. Slightly infatuated, maybe, and a bit jealous of the crow, but not alarmed. He's been in this game twice as long as Taf and myself put together, and is just about old enough to be Ziya's great-grandfather.

When we get back to the Operations Room, Mildred seems in a bit of a huff and demands another cup of tea. She sits in one of the tall wing-backed chairs by the fire and refuses to explain anything until she's had a biscuit. I take this to mean we aren't in any immediate danger, and I manage to relax a fraction. It's also only two o’clock so I don't even need to worry about whether I'll be home on time by the looks of it. My toddler might forgive me.

When Taf appears with more tea, dispersing cups and shortbread before settling themselves on a worn leather footstool, Mildred takes a deep breath, and looks over us all.

'You have a haunting,' she says. 'But not your everyday sort of haunting.'

My internal “oh fuck” meter goes off and I lose all interest in my Earl Grey. Bloody typical. Right when I'm in trouble at home, and Potter's watching — that has to be when it all goes to shit.

'She's a poltergeist, if I'm not mistaken. And I'm not.' Mildred sips at her tea. 'She thinks she'll have some fun with you.'

'I think she already has,' I say. 'Or at least, she’s had some fun with the Aurors who're here this week for training exercises.'

'Yes, I can see why she'd like that. Tell me' — Mildred looks at each member of my team — 'what do you know of this house? Did anyone ever tell you what it was for?'

Ziya speaks up. 'The lady across the road said it was a guest house, but that she thought they were using it for drugs or something. Said people used to come and go a lot.'

I suddenly wonder, if that's true, perhaps some of the things Potter's team supposedly saw were actually hallucinations. Wishful thinking perhaps, since the level of mockery that would demand was high and the embarrassment when he got back to his smelly, loud, department would be near unliveable for him and hilarious for me.

'The lady across the road isn't completely wrong,’ Mildred says. ‘This wasn't exactly a guest house, but it wasn't drugs either.'

'Smuggling?' Bert asks. 

'Sex,' Mildred replies and he blushes deep into every wrinkle. 'This house used to be a brothel.'

Fuck.


	3. No one is going into the kitchen until I know what's happening

**_Harry_ **

Malfoy’s looking at me with a smug, superior sort of look on his stupid face and it’s the last thing I need right now. The decades since we met have dragged us along behind them but he definitely seems to have come out of the experience better than me, even though he didn’t quite deserve it. He’s still taller, and better looking and probably gets paid more. I’m in no mood for his shit.

'A what?' I ask, hoping everything I'd just heard him say is somehow wrong. Partly because, _oh fuck_ , but also, the thought of talking to Malfoy about sex is… weird. Uncomfortable. It was bad enough having Mill tell him I had a cursedly persistent erection and having him wave his wand at my dick with that patronising little smirk on his face. 

I'd previously got through life pretending Malfoy didn't know what sex was, certainly never had sex, with anyone, or anything, and that his child is a miracle of science or magic, and in fact, he's just smooth and flat down there and utterly not a sexual being at all. It's easier that way. Keeps that icky feeling at bay.

'Brothel,' he says again and ruins my hopes. 'Maison Close, whorehouse, bordello house, sex den, torture dungeon, house of ill repute… basically, a building in which people do things to other people for money, be it intercourse, role-play, fetish play, pleasure, pain, pony—'

' _Yes_ , thank you,' I say, not feeling remotely thankful. 'I know what a brothel is.' Haven't been to one before, and now I'm here with him of all people. Wonderful. Being secretly single is turning out about as well as pretending to not be famous every time I pop down to the shops. I'm in a brothel and still not gonna get any. 

He smirks, 'You seemed confused.' 

I could punch him. 'That's not what I was confused about,' I say. 'I was told this was a Muggle guest house when we bought it. You know, like a B&B.' That estate agent is absolutely getting some nasty surprise Wheezes in the mail, the fucker. I sigh, imagining him covered in angry, miniature eels. ‘And the brothel is, what? Sentient? Masochistic? Just plain fucking with us?' I hate house magic.

'More like B&D, apparently…' Malfoy looks cuntishly happy with his little joke and I give him my best beleaguered-dad look. He ignores me, same as my kids do. 'Bit of S&M on the side?' he says, head cocked.

'Yes. Very funny.' 

'I'm impressed you recognise humour at all, Potter, you must be cleverer than you look.'

I pull a very non grown-up face at him, just like my kids. We're so screwed. Grimmauld Place was an absolute nightmare to tame once I actually got around to moving into it with Ginny. It was obviously okay with Sirius there — even for the time that we camped out there in what was supposed to be seventh year, it didn't fuck around too much. Hermione’s since decided it must've found Kreacher soothing in the absence of it's true master (which apparently isn’t me). It got a lot shittier when the little bastard was living full time at Hogwarts. 

'A sentient house would definitely explain what happened earlier,' I say, ignoring his jab and mentally reliving my recent personal anguish. Can't wait for more of that.

'Oh, it's not the house,' Malfoy says and I feel the tension drop out of my shoulders for a second. Literally a second, because he keeps talking and that's never good. 'It's not even magic,’ he says, ‘it really is a Muggle building. It's just a Muggle building that's' — he shrugs — 'very, very haunted.'

The tension comes back. 

I don't really _get_ ghosts. There were a bunch at Hogwarts, they were nice enough, except Myrtle, who was a pain in the arse. And Peeves — fuck Peeves. Muggle ghost stories are always a bit malicious, though, and this morning's occurrences were far from nice so I don't know who to believe. 'Haunted?' I say, and I hope he'll elaborate without being a twat about it.

'Poltergeist,' he says.

'Fuck.' _Fuck._

'The expert we called in reckons it's the woman, the Madam, if you will, that used to run this place, back when it was’ — the corner of his mouth twitches — ‘well, you know.'

I think he thinks I'm a prude and while that's the absolute least of my worries right now, I can't just _let him_ have the upper hand. It’s not traditional. I’ll take the last Jaffa Cake off the tea trolley at work just to piss him off, I don’t even eat them otherwise. They’re weird. 'A sex den?' I say, looking him right in the eye.

'Yes.'

'Excellent.' We're fucked.

I have a class of eighteen Auror trainees who are technically adults, but they're also in the care of the Ministry, of _me_ , and so far after only half a day on their first training camp, most of them have been either turned into an animal or groped mindlessly by their classmates, then sent to the pub where they had to pay for their own meals, only to be brought back and left sitting around outside while we figure out if they need to be sent home. What a clusterfuck.

'Such a shame you blew the last house up, isn't it?’ he says, with his head cocked to the side. ‘What happened again? Was it—'

'Fuck, Malfoy. Could you not?'

'Sorry, am I making it worse or something?' he scoffs, the twat.

'Yes, actually, you are.'

'Potter,' he huffs out a dry laugh. 'It can't be worse.'

'Seriously?' I give him what must be a pretty powerfully shitty look (it feels pretty intense) because his sardonic smile drops away. 'Tell me what's worse than having brought a whole class of students to a house haunted by a sex pest.' 

He scowls. 'The fact that _I have to stay here_. As the head of my team, given the nature of the haunting, and given that Taf has a family thing tomorrow, I have to remain in this shithole until you're finished, doing nothing but Banishing basic curses your lot are too stupid to deal with.'

' _That's_ the plan?' My eyebrows try and crawl into my hair. Three days with Malfoy? Kill me now. 'We stay in the haunted house with _you_ to protect us?'

'Trust me, it's far from desirable on my end either.'

'Oh you poor thing. You get paid to sit around waving your wand around for four days.' I feel myself riling up for a good rant, blood pressure far higher than my Healer would like, and my voice coming out undeniably shitty. 'This morning I spent three hours with an erection, waiting for you to show up and help me deal with it. Literally the most embarrassing thing I've had to do in my whole life, and now you're not even going to be gone so I don't have to look at you.'

'Oh no, you had an erection. Who cares?' He waves his hand in dismissal. 'This house is haunted by a smutty voyeur and I have to stay in it with you and a bunch of overgrown children.'

'Well I don’t want to stay here with you either. So shouldn't we consider calling off the training exercises and just— I don't know, finding another way to…?' I pause, realising there's not another way to train them to clear a building without putting them in a building that needs clearing, where we have control of what's in there. 'Fuck. We don't have time to find a new venue before they break up for the holidays, do we? Are you sure this is a good idea?'

'It's a bloody horrible idea but it’s not technically dangerous, Potter, it's just a bit weird and potentially embarrassing. It'll make your baby Aurors more resilient or something. I just don't want to be here. My resilience is perfectly robust, thank you.'

'This is your job though, isn’t it?'

'It isn't. My job is meant to be unfucking weird objects and Dark Magic detection and unhaunted crypts in exotic places. Not a whorehouse in Devonshire with a shitty sex-obssessed poltergeist. I _hate_ ghosts, Potter.' He scowls at me like any of this is my fault. 'I hate them. They give me the creeps. They watch you and judge you and they're weird and cold and, just, fuck ghosts.'

He’s losing his cool a bit, which is a rare treat, and I'm not above winding him up further. 'I don't exactly consider myself a fan of them,’ I say, ‘but I think you're being a bit dramatic.' 

'Potter!’ He throws his hands in the air. ‘You have no idea what it's like to grow up in your ancestral home and be plagued by the overbearing observations of your forefathers.'

'Obviously, since my ancestral home was blown up.' I tilt my head. 'But I absolutely sympathise with your terrifying first world problems.'

‘It’s not a competition,’ he snaps, then must realise he’s a giant twat because his pointy little frown softens. ‘Sorry.'

Hmm. I didn't expect him to apologise, that's almost decent of him. 'It's fine, I don't expect, or want, people to… you know. Treat me with kid gloves.'

'Still.' He stares at the carpet between my feet.

'Anyway.' Lord, being nice to each other is awkward. 'You're staying here then?'

'Yes,' he says, obviously resigned.

Wonderful. Just what I need. Someone else to wrangle. _Malfoy._ I manage not to sigh.

'All the upstairs rooms are taken, but the nursery downstairs is free,' I say. 'It's been set up as a bedroom to be part of the exercises, as you'll know, but obviously we can exclude it so you can at least have your own room. Unless you and Mill are still close?'

'We were never _that_ close, Potter.'

'That's not what I meant.'

'I'd hope not, she's as gay as they come. It's a wonder straight men can even observe her in natural light. I don't know how she works with you lot.'

'Who's "you lot"?' I frown, and it must be my turn to get shitty. 'Statistically the DMLE is pretty well spread, for your information, and the Auror Education Team is probably the least straight department in the whole bloody building. Millicent gets on fine with us, thank you.'

'I didn't mean to imply she didn't,' he says, patronisingly. Like he doesn't actually even mean it. 'Just that us "least straight" people tend to flock together and I wouldn't've expected her to end up on _your_ team, with Lisa sodding Turpin.'

 _Dick_.

'Ohhh.' I nod. 'I see. You're assuming that since I married a woman and Lisa was generous with her affections with the boys in school that we're both heterosexual.'

I give Malfoy a look, probably half smug, half like I'm keen to punch him. Because I am, and I would love to.

'I… can see where I may have made assumptions,' he quails slightly. 'I guess it's been a long time since I was around either of you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…'

Another apology? What's come over him? 'You didn't mean to… do that thing that all the cis-het-neurotypical people do?'

'Yes.'

'Shame on you, Malfoy.' I smirk. 'Friendly fire.'

'Fuck off, Potter, you shit. It's not my fault your rainbow flag is almost completely invisible.'

'My flag is fine, thank you. I just don't wave it in people's faces. Or have it photographed in the _Prophet_.'

'I've nev—'

He manages to look both outraged and confused before Millicent appears in the doorway, hands on hips, a trail of Curse-Breakers behind her. 'Are you tit-wanks ready for briefing?' she says.

Lisa and her had got back with the recruits before I had, and had the opportunity to discuss the current predicament in a civil manner without Malfoy being a crass fucker. I wasn't best pleased with that since I was meant to be in charge, but apparently the empath, Mildred, had had to get going to her chair dancing class and Millicent, as second in charge, had made a call. It was the right call, but I'm still miffed at having to have spent time alone anywhere with Malfoy talking about sex dens. Not to mention counting out several hundred pounds worth of coins, which is why I'd been held back at the pub in the first place. This year's cohort of recruits could apparently neither count reliably or manage Muggle banknotes, and I'm both tired of maths and short about ten quid.

'Yes, we're done,' I say and stand, not avoiding putting my general crotch area in Malfoy's immediate field of vision, since he's still sitting down, nor hitching my jeans back up to where they should be. Let that sliver of skin above my waistband torture him before he manages to stand up himself. I'm still in good shape. Maybe shoving a little bit of my bisexuality at him will make him think twice about making assumptions in the future. Maybe it'll just make him jealous I have abs and he has nothing but pasty skin and pointy hip bones. Maybe he'll accuse me of flirting and we'll have an HR-worthy excuse not to work together.

'Good,' Millicent says. 'This lot' — she nods her head at Malfoy — 'want to get everyone together and explain the thing with the stuff.'

'I'll go get the kids, then,' I volunteer, just in time for said kids to appear in the doorway. Lisa leads them in like a string of ducklings and they nod their hellos to me. This entire generation seems to communicate in face twitches and emoticons. 'Or not.'

'Chill, Harry,’ Lisa soothes. ‘It’s all under control.'

'Good to be useless sometimes, I suppose.'

'You'd be the one to know,' Malfoy says under his breath, like a dick.

'Don't start.' Mill gives him a stern look. He scowls back at her. Shifting loyalties and Slytherins: a recipe for drama I've no intention of being a part of. I offer Lisa my empty seat and retreat to the window and its wide sill, perfect for leaning on as well as keeping my distance from that viper’s nest. Knowing I've been violated by a sentient ghost and not just a misplaced curse is making me feel like avoiding everyone, even if other people probably mean more protection than I'll have alone. We were by ourselves when it happened this morning, after all.

The recruits find seats on the rows of benches facing the dais and the screen at the front of the room, and the rest of Malfoy's team slink in last to hover by the door. Only the two young ones are actually still here, the older fellow has apparently gone. Lucky bastard. I wish I could claim old age and fuck off home. Or to chair dancing, whatever that is.

Malfoy waits ‘til everyone is settled and glares at them ‘til they're quiet. One or two of the recruits shoot me glances as if to say "who the fuck is this guy?" and I can only try and restrain my smirk. And fail. A lot. And cough to hide the laugh when one of the salty glances is Marco, who's a posh little cunt and more than a match for Malfoy's wanky tendencies. Marco and I didn't get on for a long time, not until we came to an understanding that all disagreements should be handled like a duel (with words or wands or both) and then the winner wins and we move on. He's going to be an amazing Auror and a pain in Robards' arse. I like the kid, a bit. Maybe more than is proper, even if he is 20 and not really a kid. He's fit, and openly bi, and I wish there was a way I could’ve met him as he is now, a decade ago when I was horny and confused and looking for a fight. Any duels could've been settled in the bedroom. Fuck I'm awful. The lack of sex is making me crazy. 

Gin and I weren't exactly at it much before we separated but it was enough to keep any pre-middle-aged thirst at bay. And we may have backslid a time or two. And there may have been consequences. But we're okay now. We're a team but we aren't a couple. I'm free to fantasise about snarky, fit 20-year-olds so long as it stays in my head and doesn't leak out into real life. I should keep trying to not get fired.

Malfoy starts his lecture and it’s surprisingly palatable. He's clear and concise and doesn't shy away from the facts. It's easier to hear the verdict when he's not actively taunting me with it. The recruits look surprised but there's no giggling or moral outrage and no one demands to be taken home, which is a relief. When he shoots me a glance and asks if anyone wants to go home, or if they're willing to sign a waiver and just get on with it, I almost feel like we might be able to work together without massive unprofessional fallout. What a way to keep this shit on track. If I'd have suggested going home they'd have blamed me for what's happening. If he does it, I stay on their side and we get through it as a team. And the waiver is really something I should've thought of. I owe him, I guess. Which is unfortunate. We didn’t bring any Jaffa Cakes to appease him with.

When he wraps up, it's as I expected; they all want to stay, and they scrabble for the parchment forms and quills to sign away their right to complain. I wonder if he's worded it to include this morning's fiasco, and how much I actually owe him if he has. A packet of shit biscuits and a round of drinks won't cover it. Maybe I need to buy him dinner. 

The thought of us somewhere posh with dim lighting and too much cutlery and wine springs unbidden into my head and for some reason my imagination has painted him unquestionably pretty in the candlelight. It's not the sort of date Gin and I ever went on. When I push myself to picture him in our favourite dumpling bar in Soho, he doesn't get any less pretty and I realise maybe my imagination is correct, and he really is _significantly_ better looking than me. Wanker.

He's not as skinny as he used to be, not so pointy. He's not quite _lean_ like Ron is though; there's no hint of hardened muscle under his clothes. That said, Ron is a big fan of t-shirts that don't quite fit him. He claims he's lazy and doesn't like shopping but I've seen the way Hermione looks at his chest and his arms and how they're not quite contained by the fabric. How it strains. To be fair, I've looked too. I’m sure it’s strategic.

All the Weasleys have their things. Gin's plain gorgeous. As is Charlie. (Unsurprisingly a very good kisser as well. Truth or Dare never did me a bigger favour than that one, or perhaps I should be thanking George.) Bill, just like Fleur always claimed, is no less attractive for his scars. Instead of just being pretty, he's pretty and a bit rough, rugged. It works. Especially when he pulls out that leather jacket again, even at his wild old age of… I forget. Dad-age. George still looks the same, but he's developed a sort of comfortable, cardigan-hippie style since getting together with Luna, and he toes that line of bohemian versus practical really well. Even Percy started letting his hair grow out a bit, his legacy of curls from Molly setting him apart. He keeps it short around his neck and lets them pile up a bit on top. I never thought I'd see the day I thought Percy looked cute, but there you have it.

Malfoy is a more coltish sort of slim — long and pale. His white shirt collar is far too stiff and his suit far too fitted to actually be comfortable, but he looks it anyway. He looks light, like I could pick him up. And even though he’s taller, it’s not by much, I don't think. I could still kiss him standing up without straining anything. We'd still align lying down. We'd slot together nicely, I could throw him around a bit, pin him down… Why am I thinking about this?

He looks up at me over the heads of all the excited recruits and raises an eyebrow like he can sense my thoughts and I push them away so it doesn't show in my eyes that I'm being a filthy shit again. I raise my hands and give him a silent round of mock applause, lighting tapping my palms together — yes, well done, you smug fucker.

He smirks and twirls his hand in a tiny flourish, dipping his head in a bow. Still a posh tit then, good to know. My brain takes us back, inexplicably, to the candlelit restaurant, gives him the same smirk and the added thrill of his ankle sliding up the inside of my leg and I wonder, suddenly, if my thoughts are my own, or if that bloody ghost is fucking with me again. Why was I ever picturing myself on a date with him in the first place? My dick tingles out of nowhere and I reckon that's probably evidence enough that there’s something supernatural going on in my pants. 

I probably need to talk to him about putting an end to that. Alone. And soon.

~

I get the opportunity to do so in the evening and it makes me wish I hadn't gone and asked the universe for something without stipulating I'd really rather it didn't happen just because we'd had to barricade ourselves in the walk-in pantry to avoid a hailstorm of kitchen knives. I can see the tip of a cleaver poking through our side of the heavy wooden door and I wonder if Malfoy's reconsidering the amount of danger the poltergeist is putting my students in.

'I guess we're not having pasta for dinner then,' I say, putting my handful of dry spaghetti down on a dusty-looking shelf. There’s a fine layer of white all over everything, like a bag of flour exploded a bit. The whole place smells like fresh snow for some reason. I slide my wand out of its holster and use it to stack some giant sacks of rice to give us somewhere to sit. I'm too old for the floor, and he's probably too posh.

'Does that pub do delivery?' He sighs, then changes tack. 'What if we Vanished all the knives?'

'Then she'd probably come at us with a grater.'

'I don't think her intent is to maim us.'

'Tell that to my dick.'

'What's wrong with your dick?' He spins, a look of clinical concern on his face, obvious even in the dim light of the pantry.

Not what I meant but I guess this is it. And at least we can't be overheard or interrupted. And if he's a shit about it, I can always open the door and throw him out there. 'It's felt weird since this morning,' I tell him.

'As in, since before you got here, or since your hyper-sensitivity episode.'

'It was perfectly fine before it was cursed, thank you.'

'Ginevra hasn't been putting anything strange in your tea? 

'Ginny has nothing to do with my dick, thank you. It's _her_ ,' I say and point my wand at the door, just as something solid thunks against it.

'Right. Seems rather unconventional, but okay. What symptoms are you having?'

'It's still sensitive, physically, and—' I cut myself off, realising that if the poltergeist isn't affecting my thoughts, I'm about to just admit I'm a filthy bugger with a dirty mind. 'There are weird ideas in my head. Things I don't normally think of.'

'Such as?' I hear the smirk in his voice.

'Scenarios I wouldn't normally find… interesting.'

'And by interesting you mean arousing?'

'Yes.' Fuck me.

'And it has to do with graters?'

'No. It has to do with me imagining going on dates I wouldn't go on with men I wouldn't go with.'

'Men you wouldn't go on dates with?' he says, and he sounds confused.

'Yes. Like, every man in this house, being that eleven of them are my students and the only other one of them is you,' I explain.

'Didn't think about Bertram while he was in? He'd have been so flattered.'

'No, but that Taf's alright looking, got a number?’ I deadpan. ‘I can take him ice fishing or something equally unlikely.'

'Taf doesn't identify as a him and wouldn't go ice fishing with you if they did.'

'Kick a man while he's down why don't you?'

'Nothing personal, Potter, they just don't like fish.'

'Is that a metaphor?' I ask.

'Well, you're not a fish so it must've been.' He’s definitely smirking now.

'Excellent. About my dick then, over-enthusiastic bane of my existence that it is, what the fuck is that bitch out there trying to achieve?'

'From what Mildred had to say, and what I've observed myself over the years…' He lets himself trail away, grimacing slightly. 'I think she wants a show.'

'A show?'

'She's a Domme, Potter. She likes to be in control. She likes to watch hapless men do her bidding and wibble about it. She gets off on you trapped in a pantry with a handsome devil such as myself, complaining about your over-enthusiastic dick.'

'Then why is she going after the girls as well? Do you think she's a bisexual on top of being a Dominatrix and a poltergeist?'

'What's so inconceivable about that?' He gives me a look, brow arched. 'I'd not have thought you'd be a proponent in bi erasure, considering.'

'You're twisting my words. You're as bad as Hermione.' I’m having doubts that discussing this with him is a good idea, but I can also feel his heat bleeding through my shirt where our arms are almost touching and it’s a bit distracting.

'She's the youngest ever Deputy Minister for Magic, I'll take that as a compliment.'

'You do that. I'll tell her you said hi.'

'Very well. And no, I don't think she's bisexual.'

'What, Hermione?’ I say. Did I miss something while I was thinking about how warm he seems? ‘She—'

'The _ghost_ , Potter, keep up.' He sighs and leans back against the wall beside me. 'Think about it. Which of the dorm rooms were only sent to sleep?'

'The… girls.' Oh.

'Yes, and what happened to your two female colleagues?'

'Turned into a leather daddy and a tiger?'

'Both powerful symbols. The fact that Millicent didn't appreciate it is beside the point.' He turns his head, the hair on the back of his head sticking up against the wall behind him. 'That delightful creature out there likes and respects women.'

'But all the men are fucked?'

'I reckon she'd like them to be.'

I drop my head in to my hands and wonder what it’s like to be unemployed. 'Please tell me you included something in the waiver so that we're not responsible for any of the kids getting off together?'

'Of course I did, I was 20 once. I remember what it's like.'

Weirdly, I also remember him being 20. It was while Ron and I were in training at the Academy, Gin was in her first season and away every weekend, Hermione was working insane night shifts in the Creatures Department, and we were finally living with no responsibilities and no girlfriend (or wife, in my case) around all the time to tell us to behave. We did a lot of stupid things under the influence of anything we thought probably wouldn’t kill us. Including going clubbing in some truly sticky places, many of which Malfoy had seemed to be a regular patron of. We’d mostly ignored him. Certainly never talked to him. In part because he always seemed to have his tongue down someone’s throat. 

'Me too,’ I say, not mentioning any of that, but feeling the need to point out that I was getting some as well. ‘I was married and living with my in-laws and we had to have sex in the fucking garden or they'd hear us.'

'Kinky.'

'Cold,’ I correct him. ‘Uncomfortable. Mentally scarring…'

'How is your lovely wife, anyway?’ he asks, stretching his legs out in front. They’re too long; he looks physically improbable. Worse, he’s decided to be nice, so I’m stuck in a pantry with my former nemesis, threatened by knives and starvation and my own dick, and now he’s asking probing questions about my shitty ex-marriage that no one knows is _ex_ except Ron and Hermione… Is it too late to call off this whole exercise? ‘Is she still playing with the Harpies?'

'She's, er, coaching a local team and is still a sub for the Harpies. She won't go back to full time ‘til after the kids are all at primary school, and even then, she might not. It’d be a lot of work to get back up to speed. We're not all so young anymore.'

He huffs a dry laugh. 'Tell me about it. Having a child instead of having a sleeping schedule certainly takes its toll.' He smiles fondly at the floor, completely at odds with what he’s saying, but also totally in line with how fatherhood has always seemed to make me feel: horrified, but like I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. It’s weird to relate to him so… easily. 'And I only have the one,’ he says, and looks over at me again. ‘I don't know how you do it.'

'Teamwork. Alcohol.' I wave my hand at our surroundings. 'Very important business trips.'

He smirks. 'I miss being part of a team. I mean, my mother's fantastic with Scorpius, and my old nurse-elf is now his nurse-elf, but… Astoria was a good mother, and I wish she'd been around a bit longer.'

'I'm sorry about that.' I pause, marvelling at how quickly the conversation has escalated from dick problems to life and death, and wondering how much I can offer in return now that Malfoy's being so open. Weirdly, I’m feeling quite like sharing. Maybe holding it all in all this time was a bad idea. 'There’s not much I wouldn’t give to go back a few years and really appreciate what I had. I wish Gin and I were the way we used to be. Before Al was born we were inseparable. Young and happy, and James was such an easy baby, it was all so simple.'

'What happened to you?'

'Al was prem. Ginny was in St Mungo's for a month with him,’ I say, and I feel myself fidgeting. I don’t normally talk about the beginning of the end. Though the papers do, it’s not like we’ve been painted as the perfect couple lately, so the general idea of our imperfection won’t be new to him. ‘She got depressed, and I had a confused two-year-old to deal with who couldn't understand why Mummy wasn't coming home, and Molly was looking after Al most days at the hospital. When my paternity leave ran out and I went back to work, Fleur had James with her during the day, and I just… couldn't go home to an empty house. So James and I moved in with Bill and Fleur ‘til Gin came home, but by then Grimmauld Place barely felt like home at all, anymore. She was different, I felt completely useless, James was unsettled from all the moving around and he wasn’t sleeping, which meant I wasn’t sleeping. I barely knew my new son. He'd cry in my arms until I handed him to Molly. He still doesn't seem to like me very much, actually.'

'The secret lives of the rich and famous,' he says, and it might’ve sounded cunty but it doesn’t. It just sounds sad. Like he gets it. Maybe it works for the rich and infamous too.

'Can you handle the glamour?' I joke, since we probably need to steer away from being completely maudlin in a pantry during a one-sided supernatural knife fight.

'How's teaching, though?’ he asks, catching on to the lighter mood. ‘You seem to like it.'

'It's better than being in the field, wondering if I'm about to die and leave my sons fatherless. I think I lasted a month after Gin figured out she was actually pregnant and it wasn't just gastro.'

'I remember that feeling,’ he says. ‘Though I only lasted half a day after we found out. I was on the Ivory Coast and someone on my team had a close call with a mojo bag and I was back home that night, having quit my job via owl and packed in such a hurry I brought home someone else's underpants. At which I, of course, worried that Astoria would think I'd been having an affair, and instead she was like, "Draco"' — he pitches his voice up — '"as if you'd let someone with Primark boxer shorts touch you. Do relax."'

I can’t help laughing even though he’s talking about his dead wife. 'She had you pegged.'

Draco raises an eyebrow and I'm confused for all of two seconds before the horror of embarrassment washes through me. Fuck. I feel my face heat and drop my head into my hands in an effort to hide. 'Not what I meant.'

'You're not wrong, it's just surprising to have someone mention such things in polite company.' He sounds like he’s smirking again.

'I'm so sorry,’ I moan into my hands. How mortifying.

'I'm not, she wasn't.’ I feel his shoulder shift in a shrug. ‘House-elf probably could've done without it,' he snorts. 'Poor Pippy. Such a hard life.'

'The _house-elf_ got involved?' I abandon my hiding to look at him in horror.

'No, Potter, she just walked in. Right when, you know, it was getting good.'

I try very hard, for at least two whole seconds, to not picture him getting utterly reamed by his admittedly pretty former wife, and that’s as long as I can hold back. Then it’s black satin, pale limbs, his face slack with pleasure and the dull slap of skin on skin resonating in the void of my mind. I feel my ears heat, and I grasp for something relevant to say before the silence becomes too telling. 

'James did that once,’ I blurt. ‘Tiny thing, like, one year old, could barely walk,’ I go on, trying to push the image of Malfoy out of my head. ‘We still don't know how the fuck he got out of his cot — and we're, you know, and it's getting good, like, really good, and then Ginny squawks and I think I've hit her G-spot so I go harder and she opens her mouth just as James starts crying and I'm trying so hard to hold on I don't really register what the sound is and she's flapping her hands about, and I figure she's freaking out in a good way and I'm fine to finish, so there's about six long seconds of her looking startled and me feeling like I'm doing really well, then I follow her eyes right as I'm about to finish and I look over and my son is standing there, whimpering, as if to say, "Dad, what are you doing to Mummy?" I've never been that mortified in my life.’ I stop talking and he stays quiet, so I just keep blabbering. ‘I couldn't even stop myself, I literally finished looking at his horrified little face. I couldn't get it up again for weeks. My therapist told me I was being a bit dramatic but she didn’t have kids so I don’t know what gave her the authority.’

I look over and he’s laughing so hard he's gone silent. His eyes are closed and his chest is shaking and he looks irrepressibly happy, so my cursed imagination pictures him under me instead of Gin. Or maybe it’s me reaming him instead of his wife, who can tell. The rush of sensation to my groin is almost crippling. I look away and focus on the steely tip of the cleaver, listening for more dangerous clanking. 

Instead I hear the rhythmic thumping of something soft and solid against the heavy wood of the door and Malfoy's breathy gasping beside me. My imagination does the math and he's back under me again, in my head, hands fisting in the imaginary bedsheets of my hypothetical bed, chin tipped back and throat exposed. The rhythmic thumping is now me, railing him like it's completely normal to want to shove your dick in mild evil. My fantasy bed smacks against the ephemeral wall of my non-existent bedroom and my very much not-at-all, never-ever, lover sighs and pants and sounds deliriously content. Internal Harry's balls tighten and my own actual stuck-in-a-pantry dick throbs with interest. Merlin's twat, this is perfectly horrifying.

Right as the Harry and Malfoy in my head start to grunt and blubber sexy nothings, while the blood in my lap does its thing, my not-lover next to me says, 'Fuck, Harry that was excellent,' and my brain-me creams himself while pantry-me shifts uncomfortably on his rice sack seat.

And then the motherfucking door swings open and the knives are gone, and I think I might have the worst luck in the world, because I definitely have enough of a semi for it to be noticeable in light grey trackie bottoms. 

'Well, would you look at that,' Malfoy says. 'I reckon she liked your story, Potter. I may have use for you yet.'

'So glad to be of service.'

'Right then, shall we sort dinner?' He unfolds gracefully from beside me.

'You can, I'm staying here. If you're still alive in five minutes I'll come out.'

'Scared, Potter? Really?' He’s looking down at me in the shit light of the pantry and I try not to look doe-eyed back at him.

'Of a fistful of knives?’ I say. ‘Yes. I enjoy having only the recommended amount of holes in me.'

'Oh, Petal, of course. I won't let the nasty ghost lady get you.'

'You were hiding in here with me, you wanker. You were also afraid of the knives and the holes.'

'Knives maybe,’ he winks, and starts to move away. ‘But I've never met a hole I couldn't tame.'

'Fuck off, Malfoy, I hope she stabs you.' 

He just laughs again and leaves me folded up on a sack of rice, dick pulsing at the thought of him taming me, and I know, I fucking know, that these are not my thoughts.

~

I'll give him this — he can cook. I help, but by the time my cock starts to behave again he’s halfway through a sauce and all I have to do is boil water and chuck spaghetti in it for twelve minutes. He lets me grate some cheese, but teases me about the grater the whole time.

The house has basic supplies but we'd brought along some fresh stuff as well, and he ends up baking a handful of the sausages I'd brought for the barbecue and cutting thin slices into the tomato and basil sauce. It’s herby and fragrant and delicious. When we take it upstairs to the Operations Room so we can all eat, Lisa kisses him on the cheek and offers to move in with him. He just tenses up and frowns until she’s gone away and sat down somewhere else. 

He’s sitting in front of the fire again in one of the armchairs, and I’m back on my window sill, intermittently watching him and hoovering in embarrassingly large mouthfuls like I haven’t eaten all day. I wonder if he put anything in it while I wasn’t looking. Once Lisa has left him alone, he talks only a little to Millicent, in the chair across from him. I’m pretty sure he won’t tell her anything I told him in the kitchen but I’m not a hundred percent sure and I don’t need her to have any more ammo on me and my sometimes-disastrous personal life. 

He finally finishes the last of his pasta and sets the bowl on his lap. I get up and wander over. 'Do you have everything you need for tonight?' I ask as I collect his bowl. 'We're going to do some exercises on the lawn before curfew, so if you need to go home, now's a good time. No one will be inside.'

'I do need to go home and put my son to bed,’ he says. ‘Perhaps beg him for forgiveness. I’ll need to pack some things as well but I won't need more than an hour. How long do your exercises last?'

'Lisa takes us all through about half an hour of yoga and then some meditation at the end of every day. She can probably stretch it out to an hour, since we don't need to commute anywhere afterwards.'

'You do yoga?' He looks up at me with something unkind in his eyes.

'Yeah. I do,’ I say, meeting his cool gaze. ‘It's a very valid form of exercise, especially when I want to do something low impact because of an injury or—'

'Potter, shut up. You needn't sell yoga to me. I practice, I just didn't expect it of someone so… Gryffindor.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' I feel my brow wrinkle. It seems like an insult but I’m not sure it’s one worth bothering with. Regardless, I’m irked. He has that way about him.

'You're a bit of a blunt instrument and yoga is an elegant, controlled discipline,’ he explains, standing up. ‘Forgive me for not being able to picture you in pigeon pose. Or sitting still at all. Ever.'

'For your information, Lisa says I'm very good, and it's made a noticeable difference to my balance and flexibility,' I huff as he turns to walk away.

He looks back at me over his shoulder. 'Save the stories of your flexibility for the next time we're trapped in a tight space, would you, Potter?'

Is he—? Was that—? Shit. No, of course not, he only means the ghost and her appreciation for stories. 'I can't possibly demonstrate pigeon pose in a pantry, Malfoy,’ I say, trying to pass off my pause as patient disdain. ‘Why don't you just join in tomorrow night and marvel at my ability to not fall over in person?'

'Oh, I simply cannot wait to see you pretzeled into a bird,’ he smirks as he walks away. ‘I'll pack my leggings.' 

Sarcastic bitch.

'You do that,’ I say to his back.

I hold my hand out for Millicent’s empty bowl as I pass her and she hands it over with an arch look. I don’t know why she expected us to not bicker, but she’s right. I can be civil. 

‘Sorry,’ I mutter in her general direction, and she just rolls her eyes. ‘Hey, Malfoy, wait a second and we can check your room is fit for sleeping in.'

'Well, that fills me with confidence,' he grumbles and goes to wait by the door while I let the guys in the Yellow dorm know it’s their night on clean-up.

I meet him by the door and add his empty bowl to my stack. 'I just meant that we can check that you've got proper bedding and you'll be warm enough. I don't know if anyone actually made that bed when housekeeping came though.’

‘Housekeeping was here? When?’ He sounds concerned.

‘The day before you guys came through. All female crew of course, though, so the lack of troublesome stories makes sense in hindsight.' I shrug and start off down the hall, carrying our dirty dishes and feeling a bit like housekeeping, myself.

'Seems rather sexist, Potter, to assume the cleaning crew is made up of women? What would Granger say?'

I turn and look back at him. 'She'd say, “Excellent, our initiative to get mature women back into the workforce is working”?'

'And all they're expected to be capable of is cleaning?'

'No,’ I say slowly, wondering when he became such a feisty advocate for middle-aged women. ‘That's just the first stage, so they can gain confidence doing something familiar in a low-pressure environment, and we can gauge their commitment to completing the course. After that they choose placements in other departments of the Ministry; administration, accounting, catering, climate control, horticulture, wherever their interests lie.'

'And what of their previous job experience?' He takes a couple of longer strides to catch up with me.

'The initiative wasn't set up for those with recent work experience,’ I say, realising I’m going to have to explain the whole thing to him. ‘Hermione aimed it at people in their late middle age who might've been at home with kids ‘til the last ones are off to Hogwarts, or who lost their husbands during the war, or their money, or their mental wellbeing. Having a job helped them reintegrate with society and earn a stable wage. Feel some self worth. Like they were doing something worthwhile. Helped us all move forward.'

He’s silent for a second, then says, 'How very noble of you,' and I think he might actually mean it.

'Nothing to do with me,’ I say, starting down the stairs, which isn’t entirely true, I did sponsor it. ‘All Hermione's doing. She needed a project after we left school again and she noticed things needed doing and there were a lot of capable women standing around and not really knowing how to move forward.'

'How long has it been going?'

'Years. She started after Eighth Year, just small, when she was still interning for Prue in Social Development. It got bigger and bigger, and now someone else is in charge of it.'

'How come I’ve never heard about it?' He sounds annoyed.

'Because you're not a woman of a certain age,’ I point out. ‘And you were gone for all those years after school. France, I assume, oh ye of bad faith?'

'Belgium, actually, you tit, I did my Curse-Breaker training there, and Asti and I ended up both working for one of the banks until it got bought out, which is how we met.'

'So you speak Belgian as well?' I wonder how many languages he knows. I’ve always intended to learn another but never got round to it and now I feel too old. I kind of envy him a bit.

'Belgian isn’t a language, Potter. And they speak French there, too, among other things, you uncultured swine.'

The envy disappears, replaced with mild annoyance again. 'I prefer uncultured to eating snails. Anyway. This is the room.' I wave my free hand at it, still clutching our dirty dishes in the other.

'Potter, I _have_ been here before,' he says, stepping through the doorway.

'Yes, but—' I follow him in.

'But nothing. I set this room up with tiny little curses to bother your students. I'm very familiar with it.'

'Okay, _sorry_ , I just wanted to see' — I flick back the bedspread — 'if there was any bedding and there's not.' I find a bare mattress underneath, no sheets, no blankets, nothing.

He sighs. 'Shall I pack a sleeping bag as well, then?'

'No need for the tone,’ I say. ‘I'll make your bed up for you. We have spares of everything.' I stop short of asking if he needs a waterproof bedsheet or if he’s not _actually_ a giant baby and is just acting like one.

'Finally,’ he smirks. ‘I have you waiting on me like a servant, just like I always wanted.' Dick.

'I think that says more about you than me.'

'That I have rubbish taste in servants?'

'I'll have you know I'm very good at making beds,' I say, and wonder why I’m defending myself over this. 

'So much talent you have, Auror Potter. The Boy Who Lived To Do Chores.'

Fuck, he’s annoying. 'I'm not above short-sheeting your bed, you pest,' I say and walk out, heading for the kitchen, praying there might be a little bit of pasta left.

'I'm sure I don't know what that is.' He follows me into the hall.

'No, I can't imagine you do. Is it very boring being very rich?'

'You tell me.' 

'I'm mildly well off, thank you,’ I say, putting our dishes in the sink but keeping one of the forks. ‘No fancy robes or sprawling mansions for me.' 

There’s a bit of pasta left, and not enough to make it unreasonable to eat it straight out of the pot. There’s a thirty-three percent chance it’s his fork, of course, but I’m sure his being a pain in the arse isn’t catching. 

'Horrifying table manners aside,’ he says, glaring at me as I finish the pasta off. ‘You live in a four-storey Victorian townhouse in London that utilises wizarding space, you have no want for sprawl.'

'How do you know where I live?' I look up from the pot. Grimmauld is still Unplottable, one of the reasons Gin and I both still live there. With my lifelong fame-plague and her Harpies stardom, plus kids, we need to be unfindable.

'I was set to _inherit_ where you live, before your godfather — my mother’s cousin, Merlin rest his soul — decided to leave it to you and your future brood of ginger children.'

 _Oh_.

'Neither of my kids are ginger.'

'Lucky for them.'

I look him up and down. 'Yes, heaven forbid they have any actual colouring.'

He rolls his eyes and pushes off the bench he was leaning on. I watch him cross the kitchen to the large stone fireplace. It’s set up for spit-roasting and I’m sad we didn’t bring anything appropriate for it. You cannot spit-roast a sausage. He spells it alight and fishes in his pocket for something that turns out to be Floo powder. 

'See you in an hour, Potter. Enjoy your yoga. Be sure you don't strain anything.' He flicks his wrist and the flames turn green.

'I hope you get soot in your eye, you bastard.'

'Yes, yes.’ He turns away. ‘Oh. Potter?' he looks back over his shoulder, one hand on the mantle. 'Do try not to get an erection while I'm gone, I can't be running back to rescue you from your own crotch.'


	4. We were wondering if maybe you had experienced any disturbances

**_Draco_ **

I can't say I genuinely expected him to have erectile problems when I left him here an hour ago. So it's a surprise to find him tied to my freshly made bed with his trousers tented and his gaze just as hard as his cock. It’s not a bad surprise, per se; there _is_ a certain sort of amusement in it. He does not share my view.

'Malfoy. Get me the hell off this bed,' he demands the second I walk through the door. I’m still in a fatherly mindset and almost remind him to say _please_ , before I get a good look at him and realise what’s going on. 

My gaze lingers in his lap for a moment longer than is professional. 'Was the yoga a bit too stimulating for you?'

'I didn't get to _do_ yoga,’ he snaps, ‘because I've been tied to this damn bed for forty-five minutes, waiting for you.'

'I hope not _all_ of you was waiting for me,' I say, with a pointed look downwards. Also not very professional, I suppose, but I doubt he cares.

'Not the help I was after. Thanks for making it even weirder. Could you give me a hand please.' He punctuates his words with an indicative rattle of his… handcuffs?

 _Could I give him a hand? Really?_ How is he so wholesome, still, after a dorm full of boisterous Gryffindors in his formative years, all those adopted brothers, and years in a bullpen full of typical, cocksure Aurors? And what _optimism_ he must have in regards to this haunting. After mulling it over at home, I realised we might be rather lucky she didn’t retaliate against us for spoiling her fun this morning. There were probably safer, less confrontational ways to deal with her friskiness than throwing my considerable Curse-Breaking strength at it. I think the kitchen proves that — give her something and she’ll let you go. And what she wants here is obvious. To me. Clearly not to him or he wouldn’t still be attached to my bed by his wrist. 

'No.’ I deposit my holdall on the armchair and summon my dressing gown from inside it. ‘I'm going to go and have a shower for exactly fifteen minutes and you are going to figure out why she left you with one hand free.'

'Malfoy!' he splutters as I step into the ensuite. 'I'm not left-handed.'

I look over my shoulder at him, spread out on the bed. 'Maybe time to learn then. Fifteen minutes.' I start to close the door.

He pulls on his restraints again, and they clank against the headboard. 'How can you just leave me here?'

I sigh. 'Because in the pantry, once we gave her something she enjoyed, in that case a bawdy tale from your depressing sex life, she stopped trying to kill us. And giving her something to keep her entertained seems preferable to me dismantling all of her fun and pissing her off. Especially when we have another four days here, in her house.' I see him take that in and his shoulders sag under the weight of understanding. ‘It’s a small price to pay for the sake of de-escalation,’ I say. ‘And not being stabbed.’

'So you want me to wank on your bed?' he asks, but it’s barely a question.

'I'm sure you're very good at _Scourgify_ , and I'm very, very sure you aren't the first man to reach his climax in that bed. Brothel, Potter, remember?'

He makes a sound that's sort of like an “uargh” and I close the door. And I do not think about him masturbating in the next room. Not even when I'm in the shower.

~

I emerge to find him gone already, and the bedspread smooth and neat. The air smells of him a little, but not of his _essence_ , just his cologne, or whatever Muggle unction it is. I can’t decide between casting another _Scourgify_ or a spell that would reveal traces of bodily fluids, just out of curiosity, but then I remember the former occupants of the house and settle on the _Scourgify_. There are things best not known, probably. It’s like Schrodinger’s Semen — so long as I never know for sure, there’s every chance this is a brand new set of sheets and I won’t be sleeping between the ghosts of other people’s little soldiers.

I dress in something comfortable but still civilised, since the recruits should be shown a good example and I doubt Potter's capable. There was talk of tea and cake for supper earlier and I have no intention of missing the chance at some of Millicent's baking.

The hallways are cool, and by the time I’m back upstairs in the corridor outside the Operations Room, I’m wishing I'd brought a cardigan or something. I forget sometimes that the Manor's heating charms are so effective. Or rather, I forget that Muggle buildings don't have them. There are radiators along the walls though, so maybe Potter will know how to turn them on and we can all be a bit more comfortable. I don't sleep well in the cold. Especially not alone.

The warm square of light from the Operations Room is extra welcoming in the dark, empty hall, and I find myself looking forward to the company of other adults, even if one of them just defiled himself on my bed. There’s something about the atmosphere when everyone is gathered in this room, a cosiness I’ve missed without realising. It’s like the common room used to be at school. 

'Draco.' Millicent calls me over to the fireplace as soon as she sees me walk in. She’s sitting with ex-Auror Turpin and I want to know what happened there but it's impolite to ask, might be woman problems. 

'Millie.’ I nod. ‘Ms Turpin.'

'Call me Lisa, you twat.' She rolls her eyes at me. We haven’t spoken in fifteen years and _that’s_ how she greets me.

'Very well, Lisa, You Twat.'

Millie cracks up laughing, her mirth attracting a few curious glances. ‘You walked into that,’ she says.

Lisa scowls gently at both of us. 'I hate you all, I'm going to go find Harry,' she says, and conveniently vacates the chair so I can sit down. It’s warm by the fire and I feel myself unclench slightly.

'Don't you want to follow her, Draco?' Millicent asks.

'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,' I say, even though I think I do and I wish she’d have forgotten that one small detail of my teen years at any point in the past decade and a half.

'I’m talking about your gentleman boner for Lord Potter. I assume proximity has caused another flare up?'

'I haven't considered him like that in sixteen years, you insufferable cow. And I'd appreciate you not mentioning it willy-nilly. There are people around.'

'You're the one who disappeared with him for an hour,’ she raises her hands to make air quotes, ‘" _to make sure you had all you needed_ ".’ She looks far too smug. ‘It doesn’t even take someone who lived through your obsession to feel a bit suspicious about that. He never misses yoga.'

'I'll have you know,’ I say, leaning toward her in my chair and pitching my voice lower. ‘He was tied to my bloody bed when I got back from the Manor. Alone. You obviously weren’t that worried about him missing yoga if you let him sit cuffed to a bed for the better part of an hour while you flounced about on the grass. He said he’d spent forty-five minutes there, by himself, waiting for someone to save his arse, so where were you?'

' _Save_ his arse, or…?'

'Or nothing, you absolute savage. Don’t make me compare this to how you’d be behaving if it were a young woman in his place, helpless, alone, and being watched by a perverted supernatural entity. You’re being a right shit and I’m in no mood for it. Can we talk about something else, please?'

'Fine. How's Baby Scorpion?'

'He's in a snit, but he's healthy.’ I say, glad to be on slightly more pleasant topics. ‘Has full lung capacity for yelling at me about how I missed dinner again. He's like a tiny blond Pansy.'

'Getting on okay with just you and your mum, now?'

'I don't think he understands where Asti went, which is fine, I suppose. As far as he's concerned, she might just walk in one day with a bowl of custard and be forgiven for leaving us all.'

'I'm so glad to be a spinster,’ she says, and I think she means it. She was never on good terms with her emotions. ‘Seriously, I have a cat to explain all the weird noises in the night; I'm surrounded by decent people who call themselves my friends but never, ever invite me to couples dinner parties; I never have to share my food. Plus, I get to work with The Very Famous Twat Who Lived, and every year we get a new batch of baby twats, but so long as I never put my hand up, I never have to be in charge of anything. I just sit here being a vaguely responsible adult and wait for them to bring me tea.'

'Clearly, you're living your best life.'

'Without a doubt.' She nods solemnly. ‘I don’t know how you handle family and staff and an estate and a job where you might die if you fuck it up.’

'Don’t hold back or anything, Millie.’ I pour on the sarcasm. ‘Please, keep drawing comparisons and rendering my existence undesirable.'

'I've not the time to indulge you, Draco,’ she parries. ‘You'll have to point out your own failings.'

I huff a laugh. She’s just as sharp-tongued as she always was. 'I'd thought I might rely on Potter for that, but he's being strangely nice.' It’s true but I don’t know why I’m telling her, or why she’d care.

'Oh look,’ she says and mimes taking an oversized pocket watch from her bosom. ‘We went a whole minute without talking about Harry but here he is again.'

'So sorry,’ I drawl, not meaning it at all. ‘Let’s talk more about your cat, shall we? Lady V, is it?'

'Not her full name, but that's acceptable.'

'Any interests? Mice, maybe? Lounging? Tearing your curtains to shreds, I hope? Maybe the slight scent of fish?'

'Don't be bitter, now, Draco,’ she says and her eyes flick behind me. ‘Look, there's cake.'

I turn in my seat to see Potter carrying a tray of mugs, a jar of sugar and a bottle of milk bobbing along behind him. Lisa is bringing up the rear, a cake hovering at her shoulder and a large metal teapot held in front of her, oven mitts dwarfing her small frame.

It seems to be something of a routine, since the recruits spring into action immediately upon seeing Potter, lifting a table into the centre of the room, someone conjuring an embroidered tablecloth out of nowhere. Seats are rearranged, someone steps forward to pluck the milk and sugar, then cake out of the air, and as Harry sets down the tray of cups, they all form a loose sort of circle, spreading out wide around the table.

'Come on, grumpy pants,' Millicent says, tugging my sleeve, and she gets up, taking a place between two recruits. Lisa sets the teapot down and shuffles in beside her.

'Welcome to the first supper of training camp,' Potter addresses the circle. 'It's been a bit of a day and I think we deserve this a touch more than usual.’ He smiles and I wonder why tea deserves a speech, but then he starts talking again and it makes sense. It’s corny and I’m horrified but I hold my disdain inside. ‘Today I'm thankful for having some expert assistance on hand for the rest of the week,' he gestures at me, and I freeze. 'Curse-Breaker Malfoy will be on hand to untangle anything that's a bit too hairy. Though, some things you'll be, er, capable of handling on your own, keeping in mind what the resident spirit is interested in.' He smirks, not making eye contact with anyone, and there's a series of quiet snickers around the room.

The kid to his right checks to see he's done, then expresses her thankfulness for her mother minding her toddler while she's here. The next one is thankful for it not being too cold, the next one, randomly, butterflies. It goes around the circle, some declarations practical, some whimsical, some clearly emotional, which is pretty uncomfortable since I don't know any of these people and their unity has suddenly become palpable. I feel like a fuckwit sitting outside their circle. Millicent fixes it.

'I'd be thankful if Draco got up and joined the circle and shared with the group,' she says, and steps aside, making space between her and Lisa. Wily, wily, Slytherin.

I stand and the panic of having everyone stare at me makes my mind far too noisy to think of anything I'm thankful for. I feel the anxiety build and wonder if I'll have an explosion of accidental magic to top off my already brilliant day, which makes me think of Scorpius, and I'm saved by a tiny child, again.

'I'm thankful that my three year old doesn't know any offensive magic yet, as he's quite put out I've had to abandon him for the rest of the week,' I say, and Potter snorts but says nothing. Fortunately, it seems one doesn't comment on anothers' words. 

'I'm thankful to have been a tiger for a short time today,' Lisa says. 'That was really cool.'

I reflect, again, on the disparity of our treatment by Her Ladyship, The Ghost. Somehow I meet Harry's eyes, which are sporting a look that absolutely matches my thoughts. The corner of my mouth ticks up without my permission and his stupid face breaks into a wide grin that I've never really been on the receiving end of, and it's a whole other experience and I have to look away while the circle comes back round to him. Someone opts to be mother and tea is poured, cake is sliced, and I'm still thinking about how it felt to have Harry fucking Potter smile at me.


	5. Now… hold on to yourselves

**_Harry_ **

This house is eerie. I'd expected creaking, odd thunks and scrapes in the walls. Sounds that could be cats or ghouls, distant crashing just far enough away that I'm only nervous and not truly scared. Maybe there'd be shadows playing across the window, or a tree branch tapping on the glass. A cat scrabbling across the roof like a lame-legged demon.

Instead it's deathly quiet. The moonlight is pale and still. There are no weird shadows that come together to look like werewolves or axe murderers. No combination of innocuous shapes made ghastly in the dark. There's nothing. It's almost pleasant and if not for the fact I'd been cursed in this very room this morning I might feel relaxed. I might even be asleep.

Instead, I'm lying on my back staring at the ceiling and going over and over the day in my head. The normal beginning, my own bed, vast and empty except for myself and a cat who won't even look at me but finds the rest of the house too noisy. My former wife making pikelets for breakfast because she had a craving, my children out of sorts because they know I'm going away. My boss sending last minute owls full of well-meaning cautions — none of which came close to protecting me from this house of a thousand curses. Well. House of a pervy ghost. 

I wonder if she's watching me? I'm not doing anything interesting so I don't see why she would. The two male dorms down the hall would surely be a bit more likely if you were looking for something interesting. Or just some surreptitious wanking. Even the room under me might be worth a shot — Malfoy's nothing if not a wanker. And he knows how to perform if school was anything to go by. Whether it be mocking me or avoiding being murdered. Maybe he'll perform for the poltergeist and avoid being cursed. It did seem to work.

It's embarrassing to remember what I did, even just lying in the dark by myself, which makes no sense. My face shouldn't heat just from remembering a wank I had earlier. Even if it was on his bed, and he is sleeping there now and I may have, maybe, thought about him as I was doing it. (He was close by and wet and naked, and apparently proximity is nine-tenths of the whore.) 

It's the closest I've come to getting off with another man, I suppose. He was only a few metres away and he knew I was doing it — suggested it, even. And he'd have been naked in the shower, soaping himself up and rubbing himself down and it wouldn’t be completely weird for him to have thought of me having a wank on the other side of the door. I mean, he’s into men. For all I know he was wanking to the thought of me wanking and I shouldn’t be embarrassed at all. Maybe his theory was rubbish and he just wanted to watch me through the keyhole.

The pantry episode had been an odd one; the image of him under me so vivid. I still don't know — for obvious reasons — if the cease in ghostly hostilities was, as he said, thanks to my bawdy tale, or if it was actually a reaction to my own sexual fantasy and the resulting arousal. And unless the spectral madam decides to get chatty, I don't expect I'll ever know. I can't exactly ask _him_. 'Do you think me picturing fucking you made a difference?'

He'd probably lodge a complaint with HR. Alert the media. _Ageing Saviour Hits Rut and Pictures Butt. The Boy Who Loved Cock In His Old Age. Our Potter Comes Out On Top of Malfoy Heir_. He'd absolutely never let me forget it. Ron would never let me forget it. He already has a linen cupboard door dedicated to my most cringey headlines. And _Malfoy_? He'd laugh ‘til he died.

Hermione might just smirk and give me that look that reminds me I'm stupid.

Fuck.

Right. So. 

1\. He's nice-looking. 

2\. He's not a total wanker anymore. Well, he is, but like, normal wankeryness, not genocidal wank. 

3\. He apologised, profusely, to everyone. Hogwarts has a fountain now, a sculpted unification of house beasts and all. Before I saw it, Neville had us convinced there was a lion wearing a snake as a necklace, and one of the badgers was taking a shit. He was, of course, fucking with us. Teaching has brought out the fourteen year old boy in him more than actually being a fourteen year old boy ever did.

But Malfoy. Who is definitely into men. Apology-writing, remorse-showing, fountain-giving, and society-contributing, as he is now. Not hard to look at. Well, obviously I was a bit hard, but that's beside the point, since I'm still obviously cursed.

Right?

I slip a hand under the covers and assess the situation in my pants. No sign of arousal. Maybe it was a 12 hour thing. Like a tummy bug. Except they're usually 24 hours. And induce vomiting, not erections. I wonder if, given just a small amount of _encouragement_ , I'd respond faster than usual? Would that show the curse? And what if it does? I'm just lying here with a ready dick and nothing to do with it except play with myself. Which, really, isn't a terrible idea, since I'm not getting remotely sleepy. I should be, it's been a long day.

It's then, contemplating a wank, maybe lightly stroking myself through my pyjamas, maybe not entirely soft anymore, that I hear a noise in the hall and instinctively splay my hand over my cock, protecting it from whatever might be outside. I learn fast.

There's a knock, though, and I call out before I remember to unhand myself so when fucking _Malfoy_ flings the door open, I'm in the act of pulling one hand out from under the covers and his gaze flicks immediately to the movement. Shit.

'I'm not sleeping down there,' he states, giving my hand a wary stare. 'It's too haunted. Get out, this is my room now.'

'What?'

'It's your fault I'm here, you take the creepy room with the disembodied wailing. You're not sleeping anyway.' He raises an eyebrow. 'Though honestly, you'd think once a day was enough at your age.'

I make a vaguely offended sound but he keeps talking and I don't have room to defend myself.

'Or did you not have to finish earlier for her to release you? Is this you tying up loose ends? Because I'd request you do it downstairs and let me sleep.'

'You can't just steal my bed.'

'You wanked in mine, by Standard British Boarding School Law, it's now yours anyway. Up you get.' He flicks his wrist and my covers desert me, folding up neatly at the end of the bed. 

I want to cover myself up again but it might fuel him further. I sit up instead, and bring my knees in and glare. It has no effect. It's a battle of wills and he's completely immovable and actually wearing a dressing gown so probably not slowly getting colder and colder like I am. I do notice he's not wearing a shirt though, a pale, glowing triangle of chest peeking through the loosely knotted front. My body betrays me, and I feel the telltale throb of “not-quite-soft” swelling into “not-unnoticeable-if-I-stood-up”. Which he's expecting me to do. And watching for.

I grab my pillow, which is just the same as any of the pillows, but he's not to know I didn't bring one from home, and if I can keep it in front of me, he'll not need to know the state of my arousal either. 

If this pesky erection-meddling ghost wasn't already dead, _I'd kill her_.

'Fine, you giant baby,' I say holding his gaze so he won't look down. 'I'll take the slightly scary room, and you can stay here, in my bed, you utter coward.'

'Cowardly is better than dead or sleep-deprived, Potter. I have enough wrinkles as it is without dealing with eye-bags.'

'Yes, heaven forbid you don't look perfect for a bunch of recruits and a poltergeist.'

'I'll take that as a compliment, Potter. Do get moving.'

'How could that possibly be a compliment?'

'You just indicated the only thing standing in the way of my looking perfect was getting enough sleep. So in this case, you. You are standing in my way.'

'Good, you self-important tit.' I stand up, looking to see if he actually has wrinkles as I shove my feet into my slippers.

'Says the man who named a Scholarship after himself,' he drawls.

'Says the man who named _a fountain_ after himself,' I point out, and turn to leave.

'The fountain is _not_ named after me.'

'Are you sure?' I ask. 'Everyone calls it "Snake-Arse Fountain".'

'They do not!'

'The snake’s tail is touching the badger's arse!' I yell back down the corridor as I head for the stairs.

'It's cast bronze! All the pieces need to _connect_. It's part of the _structure_.'

'They're connecting all right,' I mutter to myself taking the first step down into the dimness. There's no point yelling at him, really, and the abrupt and unsatisfying end to the discussion will probably annoy him better than any comeback I can think of at this time of night.

I can't believe I'm being tossed out of my room. What a wanker. Why did I let him do that? He's left the light on for me at least, and made the bed, which is a bit weird. I can't help picturing him trying to leave it messy and not being able to do it, scampering back to tug the covers straight. Pompous tit.

I scan the room for anything weird out of habit, checking the window's closed and chucking a barrier charm at the old wooden frame. There's a raft of cool air around the glass and I'm cold enough already. The bed gets a warming charm and the sheets a light _Scourgify_. I fluff my pillow and toss it on the bed, retreating out of my slippers and climbing up into the pink ruffled four poster. Maybe there were no weird noises and he just didn't like the decor. 

I get comfortable and close my eyes, breathing deep to rid my mind of all the day's stressors. Luna taught me. Sometimes it even works.

Tonight, though, I have company. A weird sort. 

Malfoy, dirty-fountain-commissioning cockface that he is, was not wrong about the creepiness. There's no sound at first, then there's a sound so quiet I'm not sure it's real. Then a shift of something in the corner. A giggle? Another noise by the door. Most importantly, _between me and the door_. Another muffled giggle. It sounds like tiny devil children. Lots of them, all over. Small ones. But evil. Like they might smother me in my sleep. My heart thuds as the noise gets closer. I cry out as the bed covers shift under my fingers, and I'm up and out the door in a second, my slippers abandoned halfway under the bed and the covers flung back. I even leave my pillow behind.

An eerie chorus of laughter follows me up the stairs, and I don't stop the whole flight, so I'm panting slightly when I reach my own room, and in enough of a panic I don't bother knocking. 

Fortunately, he's not wanking; he's reading a book by the light of a tiny _Lumos_ , and gives me a patient look over the top of his reading glasses (and when did they become a thing?). 

'Anything I can help you with, Potter?' he drawls. 'So nice of you to drop by.'

'No fucking way I'm sleeping down there.'

I expect him to protest, but he just sighs and shifts over. I'm cold again and really, a lot keener than I'd like to admit, to be close to another living, breathing, non-giggling human. I slide in next to him.

'I thought this might be her plan,' he said, not looking up from his page, which seems to be some sort of runic chart. 

'Explain,' I command, because I'm not going to let him boss me around again.

He raises his eyebrow. 'Bossy,' he points out. 'But very well, Ex-Auror Potter. The poltergeist. She likes a bit of action, yes?'

'Apparently.'

'Well. That's not going to happen with the most eligible men in separate rooms, is it?'

'What?’ Does he—? ‘How are we the most eligible?'

'I'm sorry, I mean, most gay and most handsome.'

'Oh, so now you're calling me handsome? Is this to make up for tossing me out of my own bed?'

'No,’ he sighs. ‘You're the most gay, I'm the most handsome.'

'Who are you to say how gay I am?' This seems especially shitty since he’d assumed a few hours ago that I was straight.

'My wife was less masculine than yours?'

I want to point out that she was also less kind, less intelligent and less amazing at Quidditch but it seems cruel since she’s dead. I settle for channelling all my irritation into exclaiming, 'Ginny's not masculine!'

'She grew up with six brothers and played professional Quidditch,’ he says, like it means something other than that she was perfect for me, back then. ‘She's more successfully "masculine" than most actual men.'

'So you're gender stereotyping now?' I throw at him, thanking Hermione for every impassioned rant on women’s rights.

He actually looks thoughtful for a second. 'I suppose I am. Sorry. You're very handsome. Better?'

'No,’ I lie. Am I that starved for approval that I need Draco sodding Malfoy telling me I’m alright-looking? ‘Are you going to be up much longer? It's late and I have to work tomorrow.'

'Whereas I'm just here for fun,' he says, but he snaps his book shut and puts it aside. The little orb of light disappears and I hear the snick of his glasses folding and feel the weight of him moving under the covers. I'm in bed with Malfoy. After all that's happened today, this seems simultaneously bizarre and not nearly surprising enough.

'Night,' I say, and he sighs.

'Goodnight, Potter.'

It occurs to me that the current sleeping arrangements might make any nocturnal arousal seem a lot less innocent. 'You don't think she'll do anything to us, do you?'

'I have no idea. This is far more than I'd have imagined having to give her today. Hopefully the supreme awkwardness of sharing a bed with you will be enough for her tonight.'

'What about tomorrow?'

'I'm half-hoping I'll be dead by then.'

I can’t help grinning, it’s funny and always surprising when he manages to be genuinely amusing on purpose. 'I'm not sharing a bed with you if you're dead.'

'That's perfectly understandable.'

'If,' I start and a hot rush of mortification stops me. 'If anything does happen, can we agree to— like… Can we just acknowledge it's not our fault and pretend it never happened in the morning?'

There’s a slide of fabric beside me. I can make out the faint impressions of him in the dark. 'It sounds like you're planning something,' he says.

'Don’t flatter yourself. I just don't trust her. She's already had a proper go at me today. I don't like not being the one in control of my own privates.'

'Very well.’ He sighs again. ‘Should anything weird happen, I promise to assume its ghostly meddling and not your latent homosexual desire for me.'

'Bisexual.'

'Whatever.'

'And it's not exactly latent.'

'Too much information, thank you, don't care. Please go to sleep now.'

'Fine,' I say, and cuddle up on my one remaining pillow. 'It's also not for you. The desire. Just to be clear.'

'Yes, _fine_ , Potter. Go the fuck to sleep.'

~

Of course it’s not fine, not even remotely. She's batshit and clearly doesn't need sleep, preferring to stay up and meddle with my crotch and my life.

The first thing that wakes me up is the weight of another body shifting against my back. Malfoy is murmuring to himself, twitching in his sleep, tangling himself in the sheets. He sounds stressed, anxious, but not afraid, so I can't tell if it's a proper nightmare or just a dream. Who knows what horrors fill his sleeping head? Maybe it's only finances or rabid peacocks or the table linens not matching. I'd hope we're both past dreaming of fire and Dark Lords and death by anaconda. We don't want none of that.

I open my hand and conjure a ball of soft red light, easy on the eyes. When I look over my shoulder I can only see his shoulder and a waft of pale hair. I toss the light up to hover above us and ease myself around ‘til he's leaning with his shoulder against my chest instead of my back. If I roll him off me he might wake up and I want to know if he's having normal human dreams (can he, even?) or having a meltdown inside his own head. 

I don't get a chance to find out.

Across the room a vase throws itself off the dresser with a crash and his eyes snap open… and stare immediately up into mine. 

Bollocks.

'You were dreaming,' I say. 'It looked like a bad one.'

'So you thought you'd wake me up with, what?' He flicks his eyes around the room. 'Sex lighting?' His voice is rough and deep with sleep and it’s… kind of hot, unfortunately.

'I was— You know what, _sure_. I woke you up with sex lights.' I shove him off me and shuffle away. 'But might I add, you were the one moaning loudly and lying on me.'

'Nothing new, surely. I imagine most people would have a moan if they ended up in bed with you.'

'None so much as you. It's almost like you're enjoying it.'

'Yes, almost,' he says and I don't even know what he means by that, and I doubt he does either because he's rolling over and getting comfortable and seeming to give less than half a shit. 

'Night then,' I say.

'Right again, Potter.'

He's snoring lightly in a matter of minutes and it's so familiar and soothing after sharing a room for most of my life, and then having that taken away, that I follow him into sleep not long after…

Only to awake in an hour or so with a small twig sitting on my pillow and tickling my nose and a weird feeling in my pants. Again. Mother _fucker_.

I blink a few times to clear my eyes and pull away from the twig. There's something slightly ominous about vegetation appearing on your pillow that makes me hesitant to touch it. I'm glad I left the light going earlier or it probably would've looked like a small carnivorous lizard or something. I pull my wand out and poke at it. It's still a twig. Even a _Finite_ doesn't change that. But why is it there? And is there a connection between the twig on my pillow and the thick branch growing in my pants? Is it a natural aphrodisiac, maybe, and we're meant to lie here, horny and unfulfilled in the dark to entertain her? Well. Probably not, I imagine she'd prefer to have us horny and very, very fulfilled. Fuck. 

Okay. Calm, non-sexual thoughts. I levitate the twig over to the window sill, wrapping it in a shroud of impenetrable magic. It should be harmless over there. I wonder if there's any more of it, though — seems unlikely I'd be the only one suffering. I turn over carefully, both to avoid waking Malfoy again and to minimise the friction against my dick. And, well. Fuck. Like, _really_ , fuck.

He's covered in it. Leaves, twigs, a few small white flowers. Every couple of inches in every direction, there's a piece of this plant, spread over his entire body like a small, hilly meadow. He almost looks like the fairies have laid him to rest. Which is— Shit. Is he alive? I lean over him, close, and… yes, definitely alive. Breathing on a flower, it's little petals fluttering, but he’s also sporting a really startlingly large boner that's making a dent in the covers, even lying on his _side_ I can see it, it's like… Lord. If I'm as hard as I am from one twig, how is he still asleep from all of this? How is there any blood left in his brain? _Is_ there any blood left in his brain? What if he's slowly losing his mind and I'm just watching? Do I have to wake him up? Is that a kindness, even, in this situation? _Hey Malfoy, noticed you were dying from the world's most impressive erection, might want to sort that out before your dick explodes…_ I don’t fancy it.

I start levitating the little twigs away, one by one, exiling them to the window sill, and then, when I run out of room, into a small wicker rubbish bin under it. I'd incinerate them but lord knows what the smoke from this might do. I don't make it very far before a leaf brushes his chin and his eyelids quiver and open and he gasps immediately, frozen.

'Stay still,' I say. 'I'm getting it off you.'

'What is _it_?' he grinds out.

'Some sort of plant matter. An aphrodisiac, I think. I'd recommend not, er, moving your hips, especially. I'm sure you can feel why.'

'Yes, I _can_ feel why I'm light-headed and on the verge of a panic attack,’ he hisses. ‘What the fuck is happening?'

'You're the expert, but it seems we've been gifted with brand new erections while we slept.’ I can’t keep the jaded sarcasm out of my voice, a sure sign it’s still far too early for me to be awake. ‘Just like a pervy Santa. I've no idea what the plant is.'

'Describe it.’

'What?'

'Describe it,’ he grinds out. ‘I need a distraction and I might be able to figure out what we're dealing with; it can only be one of a few species and we need to know how to dispose of it.'

'Okay. Um. The flowers are small and white,' I start. 'The twigs look like twigs.'

'What shape are the petals?'

'Er…,' I locate a piece with a flower, down by his foot and bring is carefully closer so I can see it. 'Kind of round, curled at the edge, like a peach blossom. It's hard to tell in the light but there might be a hint of pink—'

'SHIT. OFF. Off, get them off, now, I don't care how, QUICKLY!'

I've already cleared the area by his head so I just levitate the entire bedspread and send it flying to the other side of the room in a panic, the duvet and top sheet getting caught up and ending up on the floor. I guess after he was awake anyway I could've done that but I wanted him to have some modesty, and now the covers are gone, and he's sat up, there's…. None of that left. I lift my gaze out of his lap as my own cock throbs with interest.

'Christ,' he moans, his face screwed up, and his teeth clenched. 'Kill me now.'

'Are you okay?'

'No,’ he glares at me like I’ve asked something stupid. I guess I did. He closes his eyes, taking slow, measured breaths. ‘I need you to leave. Immediately.'

'Er, but—'

'Potter get out of this room, I am _not_ letting this happen in front of you.'

'Okay, okay,' I scramble off the bed, missing my slippers as soon as my feet touch the icy floor, and grab for the door handle. It won't budge. Not even a bit. I try an _Alohomora_ and he looks over at me with a horrified expression.

'Potter, what's happening?'

'Er. Door won't open.'

'Then go in the bathroom and cover your ears, for fucks sake—' He cuts himself off with a long, pained groan.

I feel like an idiot running to the bathroom door with my cock bobbing in front of me like a ship's fucking bowsprit, but he's in a far worse state, I'd say, if his debauched moaning is anything to go by. I feel even worse when I find the bathroom door is in the same state as the other door: frozen solid. Won't move at all. He's going to kill me. Either on purpose or I'll just die from the embarrassment of creaming myself while watching him wank. If he even needs to, he seems on the verge of—'

'Potter!'

'It's stuck too, won't open.'

 _'Holyfuckingbuggeringhell_ ,' he breathes, a sob escaping his lips.

Maybe I won’t die, maybe he will. 'I'll, um. Cover my eyes, I guess,' I say, and bring my hand up over my face, trying to remember the spell for temporary deafness.

'I don't think that's what she wants,' he says through his teeth. 'Do you?'

'Are we not willing to try that first?' I ask, realising that of course she’ll want us to _both_ have to do the thing. 'On the off chance?' 

'Sure. We could. Repeating the exercise is always so easy,' he says, sarcasm rich on his tongue. 'Especially at our age. Almost no refractory period at all, just like a teenager. That won't take another fucking hour at all.'

'Point taken,' I say and wonder if we have to… do this as a team.

'I'm assuming by the state of your pyjamas, you're in a similar position to me?' he asks, interrupting my train of thought.

I look down at my very, very noticeable erection. 'No idea what you're talking about.'

'It might be less mortifying if we're embarrassed… simultaneously?' he suggests, staring at the thin blue and white striped flannel covering him. Right. So he’s wondering the same thing. Saves me suggesting it, at least. Though…

'What exactly do you mean, _simultaneously_?' I ask. He could either be asking for us to do this, to _start_ it, at the same time. Or. He could be asking us to _finish_ it at the same time. 

As someone who grew up Muggle and often got left at home alone for hours at a time, with my cousin's secret stash of a certain sort of VHS tape… I know that weird feeling of finishing before your inspirational material and having to watch even a few seconds of it once the hormonal need has dissipated. I had a method of fast-forwarding to a point about four minutes before the grand finale. (I was up to eight minutes by that last summer at Privet Drive.) It was a real trick picking the right timing. Start too soon and you're a bit disgusted with yourself afterwards, watching them going at it while you're cleaning up. Start too late in the piece and it's over before you are and you're scrabbling to rewind while not losing your rhythm. The internet had made a hell of a difference to my solo habits, especially lately, sans wife. Not sans tension, definitely not sans inclination, and with a load of new and glorious privacy, since I have my own room every night for the first time since I turned eleven. And a laptop. 

Not now though. _This_ room I'm sharing with Malfoy. Who's carefully gripping the base of his cock through his pyjamas and avoiding my gaze.

'I mean,' he says. 'We sit on the bed facing away from each other and sort out the problems in our trousers manually, at the same time. You do yours, I'll do mine and we pray she doesn't want more than that.'

My dick twitches in my pants. It wants more than that, apparently. I decide to not examine what exactly. 'What about timing?' I ask. 'You, er, look like you're about done already.'

'So?'

It seems petty, but I’m going to say it anyway. 'I'd feel weird knowing you were done and just listening to me wank.' I don't want him to think I'm gross just cos he's finished and the feral urge has left him. That'd be off-putting and it'd take even longer.

'I'll wait for you to catch up, then.' He sighs.

'Can you? Like, physically?'

'I don't think the moronic wibbling of you having a wank is enough to make me come untouched. No offence.'

‘I don’t wibble, thank you very much. And not to be a prick but you’re actually touching yourself right now, so…’

'Fine. Just—' He closes his eyes and takes a breath. 'Come over here, sit down, and make it happen before I have a stroke.'

 _Have a stroke_. Does he hear himself? I can't help it. I snort and he glares at me.

'What part of this is funny?'

'You just said—' There's no time for explaining. I give up with a sigh and walk back over to the bed. It's weird, even though we aren't— I mean— we won't even be able to _see_ each other. It'll be more like the dorms before everyone learned to sustain a _Muffliato_. It'll be fine. 'Don't worry. It's definitely not funny anymore.'

I sit myself down on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, my back to him. I wait for the creak and dip of the mattress that'll indicate he's doing the same. Nothing happens.

'Potter,' he prompts. 'You're probably going to have to start soon — being that… you know. I'm a little bit ahead of you.'

I look at him over my shoulder. 'Right. Aren't you going to turn around then?'

'I rather think moving is a poor idea this late in the game.'

I imagine how close he must be if he can't even risk that, knowing his alternative is to having to watch me wank. Maybe he intends to close his eyes and imagine something entirely different. Oddly, that annoys me. I don't really want my first time getting off this _near_ a man to be so… one-sided. It's already a pretty shitty situation without it being emotionally damaging as well. My therapist would have things to say about it.

'Doesn't seem fair that you can see me and I can't see you,' I point out and swivel around in my seat.

'I'll close my eyes.'

'You might peek.'

'I might— what is _wrong_ with you?'

I honestly don’t know, but I think whatever she was doing earlier, feeding me thoughts, is happening again. Or it’s the plant, maybe it has psychological effects as well as physical.

'I think in order for it to be fair, if you can see me, I should be able to see you,' I say, and it almost makes sense but it also sounds like I want it and surely I don’t?

'I am _not_ going to watch you,' he says and I feel a small tug of disappointment. 

It seems insulting in this light when yesterday I’d have considered it a courtesy. 'Fine. I won't watch you either,' I say. This house is a liability. As is my own stubborn pride. No surprises there. Healer Daniels is very much _not_ going to hear about this. I shove my hand into my pyjamas before I can chicken out. That’ll teach him… or something.

He gasps and slams his eyes shut, fist tightening around his cock. 'You are the absolute _worst_ ,' he hisses, and it’s almost satisfying.

I close my eyes too, and focus on myself for a moment, riding out the initial thrill of contact, the relief of a tight fist. I hear my own breath hitch and I wonder if he's sitting there, scowling behind his closed eyes. I imagine him biting his lip instead, watching me. Fantasising helped before, in the pantry; it can't hurt now. Half of me is listening for the door to click so I can stop this and go have the rest of my wank alone somewhere.

The other half is loving it. Lord, I should get out more.

The oddness of having him there fades — whatever this dastardly shrub is, it's potent, and I feel myself slide into a steady rhythm too easily. It escalates faster than usual as well, and a tiny percentage of my brain is convinced it's not the shrub but Malfoy's proximity — the illicit thrill of being a bit of an exhibitionist for once, a bit pervy. I can't deny the fact that the possibility he might actually be watching me is also pretty hot. It's a shame I'll never know… unless I can be bold enough to open my eyes. Or one eye. Maybe just crack it…? Do I want to know if he's watching me? It's not like I've pulled my cock out completely, I'm not on display. Why would he be?

I relax my eyelids instead, and the tiniest sliver of reddish light peeks through, blurred by my eyelashes. I don't break my rhythm, but I tip my head back so I can almost see the hazy blob that is Malfoy. He's so pale he blurs together with the white sheet, and I haven't a hope of telling if his eyes are open. All I can be relatively sure of is that he isn't moving. He should be moving. It seems quite unfair for me to be doing this alone. Not that there's long to go, if I'm honest. It's all very well to build up an ability to last, but sometimes it's perfectly okay, preferable even, to have a magical sex plant pushing you along a bit. Especially when your former nemesis is possibly watching and obviously not finding what you're doing that interesting, if his absolute silence and stillness is anything to go by.

That untrustworthy part of my brain tosses up whether to try and tease him into coming first or pretend he isn't there and let loose and see if that gets him going, but the other 95% knows that both would be embarrassing as hell tomorrow if they don't work. Lord, what if watching me is actually causing him to _lose_ his erection? Not that he's even definitely watching. I can't know without looking properly myself. Unless. If he's into it, he'll be watching and he'll see, but if he's not, he won't, so as long as I keep quiet… no harm done? Well, no further harm done that isn't already done by us having to wank together. At least this is all far too embarrassing for him to share with anyone else.

'Are you going to be much longer?' 

I'm so surprised he's spoken I open my eyes reflexively and he's looking at me, dick out now and grasped firmly in his fist. My hand stutters in it's rhythm and he looks down at my lap. It's weird but not… bad. He doesn't look back up at me and it's even weirder, but almost good. I keep my eyes on his face. He's not doing anything with his dick anyway, maybe when he does I'll have a proper look. Apparently we do that now. Look at each other's dicks. While having a wank. On a work trip like some sort of fucking torrid affair, hidden away behind locked doors so our colleagues don't find us. Jesus H. Christ.

'Could you answer the question, please,' he says, his eyes closing for a moment before they open again. He doesn't raise his gaze though, keeps watching my hand instead and I quicken my grip without quite meaning to. I see something move in his lap and he makes a soft sound. I try and focus on his face as the weightless feeling starts to spread, the hum of impending orgasm, the tingle in my joints. Looking down might just push me over and I want him to go first, like it's a matter of pride.

‘No.’

He's definitely good-looking, all grown up. The softness of youth has left him, his cheekbones sharper and the skin around his eyes thinner, almost transparent. He looks tired, right down to his bones, and maybe I'm a tragedy groupie, but I feel like it suits him, that air of barely-contained melancholy. I almost want to give him a hug. Or something. Maybe not right now, though. It'd be difficult with our hands full — and his right hand is _definitely_ full — and I'd have to be the one to crawl over there and I don't want to look too keen. He's definitely still more attractive than I probably have the strength to withstand right now. 

And then he looks up at me from under his lashes and says my name, 'Harry. Could you hurry up, please.'

'Now.'

'Yes, _now_ , I can't—' He cuts himself off and growls, low in his throat.

I drop my eyes into his lap.

'No, I mean, _go_ now, I'm close.'

'Oh,' he breathes, and then, under his breath, ' _Lubrio_ ,' and he drags his hand up his shaft, ‘til it’s shiny with lube. 

He's still restrained, his hand slow and sure while mine is a blur. The contrast is sort of infuriating and just so typical of him — determined to do the opposite of me, like he can somehow be better at wanking and isn't shy about me knowing. 

He's quivering though, and gasping softly between parted lips, his chest moving in time with his breath. Most of my attention, however, is lower down. It's like live porn and I love it more than I could've thought. More than my children, maybe. Definitely more than my wife. I blame my lack of imagination for not having tried this earlier. There should be places you can go just to — _ngghhhh_ — watch other people diddle themselves. _Jesus_.

I feel my balls tighten and unfold my legs and hold them stiff and straight, leaning back on my other arm. The elastic waist of my pyjama pants gets annoying and I shove it down and out of the way and I don't even care if he can see me. Let him watch, maybe he'll like it. He makes a sound like he might and I flick my eyes over and he's… well. In the process of making a hell of a mess of his stomach, and his hand, and the gentle, wet sound of him coaxing another spurt out is enough to push me over myself, and we're coming together like we practiced it.

I mean, technically, I've practiced by myself a lot. Which is why I can do a wandless _Scourgify_ , and I do, when I’m done, instead of just sitting in a pile of my own shameful fluids. Fuck, I was right and this all feels very weird on the come down. 

'Right,' he says, and I look over at him, and he's casting his eyes around, searching for something. I notice he's still… sticky. 

'Do you want me to…?' I say and realise that might be an overstep, even after this. 

He looks at me like I've offered to lick it off — part horror and part curiosity — and so I just do it, wave my hand, cleaning him, so he'll know that _licking_ absolutely wasn't what I was offering. And then I get up and walk to the bathroom door, find it "miraculously" unlocked and go straight in without looking back.

I stay in there for a long time.


	6. Now reach back into our past when you used to have an open mind

**_Draco_ **

I wake up first and manage to escape the cloying heat of our shared bed without waking him. Either that or he's being a surprisingly good sport and pretending to be asleep. Regardless of the reality of the situation, I make it down to my terrifying little pink bedroom unaccosted and put myself through a shower and into some clothes. Again, I opt for something casual but tidy, this time light sparring trousers and a fairly new hooded cardigan, both in jet black, stretchy enough to be comfortable and drapey enough to be flattering. Also, hopefully, voluminous enough to hide the beginnings of a stray erection, should I need to.

I brave the kitchen without any backup, and manage to make tea and toast without stirring up a ghostly response, which only proves my point from last night — she likes us _together_. I'd be horrified by the whole thing if I didn't agree with her a little bit, and I wonder if she's taken that into account. Maybe her "suggestions" are just that — maybe it would have no effect if there wasn't already a smidgeon of curiosity there. Maybe she just isn't interested in watching, if her "victims" aren't secretly, shamefully, rather enjoying it all. Maybe she's putting those thoughts in our heads to start with? I wonder if this is what he meant about having thoughts that didn't seem like his own…

Regardless, I do possess _eyes_ and Potter's not exactly let himself go in the last few years, Auror or not. I guess it's still a physical job, training the little buggers, even if he's not in the field. It must be if they're having to do yoga to wind down from it. _Yoga. Potter._ Not a combination I'd have ever thought to picture.

Though. I don't mind the thought of him in downward dog. I wonder how flexible he is. _Uttana shishosana? Ananda Balasana? Mandukasana?_

Okay, maybe the kitchen is getting to my head after all. 

I take my breakfast outside and cast a strong Warming Charm on the stone steps before sinking down. Tendrils of steam from my tea are starkly visible against the damp courtyard beyond and the smell of warm, buttery toast mingles with loam and grass and the lemony hint of soap. It's quite nice. Quiet. Almost like the Manor, but for the strange lack of wildlife, and is that even strange if the place is haunted? Animals aren't stupid. _We_ are. I am. I'm still here, after all. Not calling HR, not pretending I'm sick and Flooing home, not just quitting my job rather than risk another three nights in the same bed as Harry James Potter, my former nemesis, and, last night, my orgasmic undoing. Lord.

I feel a tiny throb in my penis.

~

By the time the others are all up and moving, I've read the schedule for the day and set up the ballroom with a sort of confidence course — simple curses on everyday objects and a large, hovering clock on the wall. It's a safe, light-hearted start to the training and should keep us all out of trouble from Her Ladyship for the morning. I park myself in the solarium at the far end of the ballroom with a book, and wait for Potter to come and find me once _he_ gets around to reading the schedule.

He appears with tea and two chocolate and beetroot muffins. He's in a grey tracksuit with Auror Academy motifs, barefoot, his hair a tragic mess. He looks like a scruffy, unslept recruit himself, not their fearless leader. If I didn't know better I'd assume he wasn't taking his job seriously. There are dark smudges under his eyes and he yawns as he plonks himself into a chair.

The tray settles onto the little table between us of its own accord and he reaches for a muffin.

'Sleep okay?' he asks. 'You know, once we got to do that.'

'Reasonably. I didn't hear you emerge from the bathroom, so at least it was quick to come.' I cringe inwardly, the _phrasing_.

'Yeah. Sorry, it was too weird.' He takes an uncomfortably large bite as if he's trying to hide in his food.

'I cannot disagree.'

'Does our agreement still stand?' he asks, swallowing but not looking at me. 'That we blame her and not us? To keep it from getting any less bearable than it already is?'

'Of course. I don't see how it could possibly get worse, but I'm sure she'll come up with something.'

'Yeah.' He picks at the crispy edge of his muffin. 'Just. You know. If it gets to the point where you don't want to do the thing that she wants us to do… I'm fine being stuck somewhere ‘til we're rescued. I mean, consent's important and we could always just burn the door down if we really need to get out.'

Oh, Lordy. Look at him being all virtuous and careful. It's almost like he gives a crap about my feelings, and I'd believe it if I wasn't suddenly utterly convinced he's just petrified. I wonder if he's even touched another man? I'm guessing he's not one for gay bars or clubs — definitely not the ones offering the kind of "companionship" Her Ladyship is interested in. Plus, he's had the same woman for fourteen years. Bless him, he's practically _innocent_.

'I wonder if she'd respond to the threat of burning?' I joke.

'It'd be infinitely easier if she'd respond to the threat of Millicent, but apparently not.' He grins a little.

Unexpected. 'You've talked to _Millicent_ about this?'

'Lord, no,' he says, finally turning to look at me, before his eyes flit away to check the space behind him, the wide arch that leads back into the ballroom. ‘Jesus. I wouldn't be able to make the words. She'd… I don't know. It would be horrifying. No.'

'Good to know you have a handle on her, Potter. I haven't any intention of telling her either, just so you know. Probably best we keep it to ourselves, considering.'

'It is probably a bit of a big deal at this stage, even if… it's not like we've had to _touch each other_ or anything. But if anyone found out anything, it'd get blown out of proportion and they'd think I was cheating on Gin and I don't really want to have to tell the world we've separated because my only other option is a sex scandal.'

'Is that what's happened with you two, then? You've separated?'

'Yeah.' He picks at his muffin some more. 'We're still living together — separate rooms, of course — just 'til we can sort out what our options are. The kids don't really understand what's going on, I think they're calmer now we aren't fighting anymore, though.'

'It is nice when you can sit across from your wife at dinner and not want to smack them over the head with a serving dish.'

He looks at me carefully. 'You guys had problems?'

'We were not terribly compatible — just plain terrible. Too similar. It was wonderful, for a time. Until we realised we already knew everything there was to know about each other and there was still a good seventy years of life ahead of us. Then it felt cloying. Like there was so much left in the universe worth experiencing, and we'd never get to do any of it unless we did it together. And we didn't want to. And then she got sick.'

‘Sorry.’ He slumps back in his chair, forgetting his muffin for a moment. ‘There are definitely things I wanted to do that weren't going to happen if I stayed with Gin, but at least the boys still have her.' 

'Like have a hearty wank with your boyhood nemesis?'

He turns his head to the side, giving me a strange look. 'That wasn't on the list, no.'

'Chin up, maybe tonight will tick your boxes.' _Maybe I'll find out how flexible you are._ Good god, am I flirting?

'You're being very blasé about all of this.'

'Well I am part French.' I smirk, the soft one with the eyelashes, and yes, apparently I _am_ flirting. Lordy.

'You know what I mean.'

'I'm not in a relationship,' I shrug, trying to dial it back and wondering if she can lock us in a room like this when doesn't have doors. 'And you're… inoffensive to look at.' There. That was almost insulting, mission accomplished.

'Thanks so much. It's what I always wanted for my first foray into men, being considered "inoffensive".'

 _Oh_ , I was _right_.

'Sorry, Potter, I had no idea I might be your first — what would you like to call it — wank buddy? We did go to boarding school after all, or did you Gryffindors have separate rooms?'

'We had curtains and discretion. And boundaries. Seems fitting that you Slytherins apparently didn't.'

'We did, we just… sometimes ignored them. Well. A select few of us did.'

'Please don't elaborate.' He picks up his muffin again and shoves it at his mouth.

'Come, now, Potter. It's not like Snape got involved.'

'I hate you,' he says through a mouthful and stands. 'We're starting this activity in ten minutes if you want to go hide somewhere and reminisce.'

'After what happened when I left you alone? No thank you. I'm staying out in the open today. Get used to it.'

'Whatever,' he says and he walks away, leaving me his still-full cup of tea and his muffin wrapper. His arse moves as he pads back across the ballroom and I find it mildly hypnotic, the bunching and flexing of his muscle under the light grey cloth. I keep following it with my eyes, wondering what it would feel like to bite into it, until I realise I'm absolutely, undeniably, staring at my co-worker's arse and that someone might randomly appear to see it. 

Would that I could pass the blame onto our ghostly host. Only, I know that was me this time, it's certainly not the first time I've picturing sinking my teeth into a hot piece of meat, and he's definitely that. If I hadn't begrudgingly noticed beforehand, then last night would've been enough evidence to sway me. I've seen The Saviour's cock and I liked it. 

I wonder if I'll see it again tonight.

~

The morning passes in a cacophony of shouted spells and screeched curse-words and medium-sized thumps as my Leg-Locker Curses take effect. Everyone underestimates the rubber ducks. Except Potter, who gets through the whole thing in under a minute without a scratch on him and without losing his footing. His hair is arguably pink at the ends but I'm still impressed. He's taken his sweatshirt off as well, which only adds to my approval, since he's only wearing a vest under it and he's not lacking in arm muscles. Or hair. Interesting, the things that turn me on. 

At twelve my stomach nudges me and I have a hankering for something greasy after watching all those people do exercise. It's England, so there'll be somewhere to get fish and chips within a short drive. I'll ask Millie where the pub was; these things cluster together.

'Potter,' I say, approaching him from behind. He doesn't take his eyes off the kid currently battling a duvet cover, but he makes a sound like he's heard me. 'Shall I go fetch lunch from somewhere?'

'Yeah, find Lisa, she'll drive you. She has the petty cash box as well. It's all Muggle out here. There's a chippy and a curry place, though. They're not bad.'

'I'm quite capable of driving myself, thank you,' I say and _Accio_ the minibus keys from his pocket. It's a terrible place to keep them while doing training exercises but he seems to have not thought about putting the whistle he has on the key ring onto a separate cord of some sort. I expect once he falls on his pocket he'll figure out why having a bunch of stabby metal things next to your thigh is a bad idea. Fool.

'Hey!' he squawks as they whip out of his trousers and into my waiting hand.

'Hey nothing, be thankful I only _Accioed_ them.' 

'What’s that supposed to mean?' he snaps over his shoulder, student forgotten, even as the duvet devours him.

'You crawled into my bed last night,' I whisper, stepping in closer to him. 'Yet I granted you the decency of not crawling into your pocket right now. Keep up.'

He blushes and I realise what a wonderful excuse for some sort of _fun_ this whole thing is. The ghost, the unfortunate situations we've been thrown into, the fact that no one else knows. And, of course, the fact that _he_ was the one to exonerate us from any wrongdoing before any wrong was even done: _we blame her and not us_. If I want him, and I'm beginning to feel like I might, I can have him and that be it. What happens in the haunted house, stays in the haunted house. So long as no one else finds out.

I walk out of the ballroom without looking back.

~

Lunch is salty and delicious. I'm fat and exhausted and only mildly ashamed of my gluttony. In the absence of sleep I'll take carbs and fizzy drinks without flinching. Potter is licking his fingers at the other end of this enormous picnic blanket and I feel rather weird about it. Left out, almost. Like crawling down the length of it — right between the two orderly rows of recruits — and right up to his face and _helping him_ is a good idea. I wonder if Her Ladyship haunts the grounds also, or if the sprawling lawn is not responsible for my spreading thighs.

When the recruits are done inhaling the remainder of the chips and have clustered themselves socially for games of whatever kids do these days, Millicent sets the responsible adults to cleaning up. She and Lisa collect 22 tumblers and a clinking hoard of jugs and herd them inside toward the kitchens. Harry sets to gathering the newspaper carcasses by hand and I sweep the giant blanket clean with magic and wonder why he doesn't employ it also. When I move past him to brush off the other end of the blanket and he's bent over and moving away from me, I wonder if it's tactical. 

He does, at least, remember to shrink the rubbish into a manageable ball, and as soon as the blanket is clear of both him and rubbish (and crumbs) I get it to fold itself and clasp my arms around it. It's still huge, even folded up but I daren't shrink it — lord knows what other enchantments are on it. It was suspiciously free of juice spills (or sauce-related accidents).

'Shall we take this inside and then join them for frisbee?' he asks over his shoulder.

'Yes to the former, absolutely not to the latter,' I say, following him toward the house.

'You don't play frisbee?'

'If you're asking if I'm in any way interested — ever — in flinging myself around on the grass, grabbing after a plastic thing that has the capacity to bite me, then no. Of course not.'

'You're a bit of a bore, aren't you?' 

'Terrifically, yes. I find being a bore keeps me both free of dirt and in possession of all my fingers.'

'See,' he says, flinging himself up the front steps. 'Boring.'

'You would think that, with your penchant for being dirty.' 

He splutters, then laughs, and it makes me smirk uncontrollably. I decide not to push it by mentioning anything to do with his fingers, even if the dimming light and the sudden privacy of the hallway has me thinking about it.

'I don't know where you're getting your information from,' he says. 'I've been with the same girl for 14 years. Or I was.'

'And nothing since then. And you accuse me of being boring.'

'I still live with her, it's not exactly conducive. Besides, I'm me and she's her and we don't want a _Witch Weekly_ exclusive just yet. Not ‘til after—' 

He cuts himself off as Mill and Lisa appear around a corner in the corridor ahead, unburdened by plastic glassware.

'After what?' I press, curious what he might keep from his own friends.

'Later,' he says, and puts on a smile that he doesn't quite manage to sell. He turns back to the women, almost upon us in the wide hall. 'Reconvene on the lawn in half an hour?' he asks, and they nod, ' _Sure, Harry_ ,' deep in their own peevish squabble about something, barely looking at him. 

We pass them and his smile is gone. I wonder what it is he's hiding from those two or if he's only putting me off for later. Or permanently. I leave it be. Or, I try to.

I last a whole minute. 'After what?' I ask, once we're in the kitchen. I even close the door behind me, like I care about his privacy. Or maybe I do care, I can't tell. The weird sexual energy of the house is making my motivations a bit fuzzy.

He sighs and dumps the large wad of newspaper in the incinerator chute. 'Ginny's pregnant,' he says, and it clanks shut.

I'm not fast enough to hide my surprise and can feel my eyebrows fly off in a northerly direction. 'Okay,' I say. 'That's… nice. I think.'

'It is. It's fine. It's just. We broke up and now we're having a bloody baby again, and it wasn't—' He stops, composes himself. Looks up at me where I'm still hugging his damn blanket to my chest. 'It's recent, the pregnancy. Post break-up. We, er. Backslid a little. She's only six weeks along.'

'Let me make sure I understand this right—' I make a show of shifting the blanket onto my hip, like I'm getting ready to count the madness off on my fingers.

'Shut up. Yes, I impregnated my ex-wife while living in the same house as her and absolutely not wanting more children, but it just… _happened_. And it's hard enough to sort out how I feel about it without you being all judgey, so… please don't. I haven't told anyone yet and I have _literally_ no idea why I'm telling you, so, I'm really hoping this isn't a bloody mistake.'

I take pity on him. 'I expect you're telling me because I've done worse and can’t possibly judge you for it.'

'Yes, now, if only I didn't have to worry about you murdering me in the press.' He leans back against the wall, scrubbing his face with his hands, like he's trying to start again.

'Are you really worried about that?' I ask. 'After we—' I take a breath. I cannot possibly utter the word _orgasmed_ in front of him. 'Let's agree, then, officially, that whatever happens in this godforsaken house — whether it be something we do or something we talk about — just… stays here. With the ghosts. We agreed already that nothing physical was going to be our fault, so I don't see why we can't extend it to random confessions as well. Who knows what other, more subtle shenanigans she has going on.'

'Agreed,' he nods, resolute, before his resolve seems to crumble. 'Though, if you confessed something in return I'd feel a lot better.'

'Unfair,' I point out. 'You confessed voluntarily.'

'Just a little one?' He looks at me from under dark lashes, his eyes just as fucking green as the October 1996 _Miss Witch_ would've had you believe. And I can't fucking believe I remember the bloody date of it. I'm ruined.

'Ugh. Fine. I'll think about it.'

I set the blanket down on the butcher's block, taking a moment to reflect on the lack of flying knives, and wonder if confessions are what keeps the kitchen calm and only the bedroom relies on depravity. 

And then I try and leave and the door handle won't turn so I can't.

'Fuck,' he says when he sees me try the door. 'Again?'

'Apparently.'

'I _cannot_ have a student find me with my dick out in the kitchen.'

'I hate this house.' I turn and slump against the back of the door, because to be honest, I wouldn't mind him getting his dick out again, not at all, and that’s terrible.

'Well, it _really_ likes us, so… looks like we're kind of fucked.'

'And here I thought she'd leave that for tonight.' Wishful thinking, I suppose. 

'If she makes my first time with a guy happen under duress I'm going to burn this fucking house down. With me in it if need be. Did you hear that, you perv?' He pulls the fingers at the ceiling.

'It's mildly insulting you'd consider sleeping with me to be _under duress_ ,' I drawl. Hopefully it hides the tiny hurt of his words. I'm getting soft in my old age.

' _You_ wouldn't?'

'There was a time, Potter, when yes, I would've been quite horrified.'

'And, what, now it's fine to be forced to sleep with someone?'

'That's not what I meant. I only— I would obviously object to it in general, but I don't…' The kitchen is definitely not to be trusted. I should really shut up. 'You know what, this is a pointless conversation.'

'Talking about consent is never a pointless conversation. In fact, it's one of the most important conversations you can ever have with someone.' He folds his arms at me, every inch the protector of innocents. (And innocence, apparently.)

'Fine,' I scowl. 'I consent to sleeping with you.' 

The door clicks. I go for it immediately, and find the handle still stiff and barely able to move. I try again. Violently. I feel my face burning with my confession and I don't know what to do, since leaving is my main instinct and I fucking _can't_. All I can think to do is keep going, vomit out my thoughts and hope they both appease her and confuse him. Maybe if I go a few thousand steps too far he'll assume I'm kidding. Maybe if I bring in a foot fetish he'll hope I am, and that's almost as good. 'In fact, I'd rather like to shag you.' I say, very clearly, to the door. The handle moves an inch under my hand. 'You're attractive in a wholesome sort of way, without really trying.' It lurches again. I'm gripping it so tightly my knuckles are turning white. Harry still hasn't said anything. 'We should definitely go out for a drink after this is over.' The handle remains unmoved by this and I marvel at it's single-mindedness. 'Maybe a shag?' I add and it twitches under my hand. 'Fine, definitely a shag, we can do it twice, I've always liked a double feature and there's a new rug in the parlour that's begging to be rolled around on. Jesus, Potter, we can go all night if you want.' I wait. Nothing. 'Oh my lord, just fucking fuck me already!' I snap, and the handle twists freely, the door opening up to the dim hallway.

I huff the haughtiest, least-bothered breath I can muster and walk out.

I count to six before I feel his presence behind me.

'What the fuck was that?' he says from my shoulder, and he must be scampering to keep up.

'Oh. I have a theory about the kitchen,' I say, like I didn't just admit to wanting him on a rug like a cheap porno.

'Please share it.'

'I think it likes confessions.' 

He grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. 'Does it not matter if the confessions were false?'

'Apparently not,' I say, wilfully letting him be misled. ‘I’ll go clear up the ballroom, shall I?’ I say, and turn away again.

'I kind of think we should talk about this,' he says, and follows me as I start walking. 

I don't answer.

He follows me all the way along the hallway and through the double doors into the ballroom… 

…and the doors swing shut behind us with an ominous _click_.

'What? Again?' he spins around to gape openly at the closed doors. Merlin fuck.

I can't not look at him. He's dishevelled and half-dressed and probably musky and sticky with sweat and chip fat and he isn't even wearing shoes, but Lord, do I want to possess every part of him. It makes no sense in my head but my body is taut and buzzing with adrenaline. I step forward, closing on him as he takes hold of the door handles, pulls hard on them, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin.

I put a hand out, tugging on his shoulder to spin him around, my other hand finding his ribcage and pushing him back against the carved panel of the door. He turns and softens and tilts his head as I step in and I kiss him.

The door remains resolutely shut, even as he opens his mouth with a gasp and a quiver and pushes up against me. His rough hands finding my jaw, my neck, the back of my skull, his tongue finding mine in a sweet, gently probing test of my boundaries. The barest touch, a question, one I'm perhaps a bit keen to answer. One he seems equally keen for. It's like kissing Pansy, almost, like licking fire. There's a hint of a fight in it, a stubborn need to prove oneself, to be worthy, and who am I to deny him that? If he wants to feel like he's gaining some validity in his untested sexuality, why would I not help? I'm the expert here. Prize deviant, classic Alpha Slytherin and no stranger to pushing attractive little crumpets against Victorian era architecture.

He's not that little, though. A few inches shorter, maybe. Pound for pound though… oops. Maybe not the best choice of words when he'll be able to feel anything I think too hard about. Hell, maybe he'll like it. I shift, sliding a knee between his thighs and leaning into it. He takes a breath, a gust against my lips and grinds against my thigh. Good lord. Has he never heard of restraint?

It… doesn't ease off, and I don't want it to, honestly. It's possibly not the best idea considering everyone else is outside and the ballroom isn't exactly short of windows, but I'm finding it hard to stop, and I can't even tell if that's me or the infernal voyeur magically spurring us on. I've no doubt she's watching. 

'The door,' he says between kisses. 'Is it still locked?'

I take a hand off his hip and grope for the handle. I find it and use it for leverage, pressing closer into his space.

'Yes,' I say.

'I think,' he replies, nipping at my top lip, 'you just tried to open the same door you're holding me against.'

I pull back, not meeting his eyes in case the bubble breaks while our legs are still entwined. I grab the other door handle and give it a tug. 'Still locked.'

'How?' he says, shifting under my weight. His exhale dances across the sensitive skin of my neck and I just want to kiss him again.

'I don't know, it's a ballroom, maybe it wants romance instead of an illicit teenage grope?'

'Do you think that would help?'

'What?'

'A grope?'

'I honestly don't know, and I don't fancy asking our ghost-hunting consultant, since she's ninety and would probably tell me off. And inform my mother.'

'May I?'

'I—' My eyes are finally brave enough to meet his and I shouldn't be that bold if I ever want a chance of saying no. 'I suppose. Way to make it awkward, though. For goodness sake, Pott—'

I don't even get to finish saying how weird it is to talk about it when he's pulled me in again and it's definitely not weird anymore. There's not space for weird, there's barely space to breathe. I've not even considered if he's actually going to follow through when I feel his hands move. He slides them slowly down my body ‘til they're firm against my lower back and I'm trying not to hump him into the wood. I'm only just holding back. My cock is not and I'm sure he must be able to feel it hardening against his hip.

His hands dip lower, fingers splaying across my arse. He pauses, like he's waiting for a click, or wanting to look like he is, and then plunges down, grabbing a fistful of arse in each hand, his forefingers pulling at that point near the crux of my thighs so I feel the tug deep between my cheeks, and there's literally no way he did that accidentally. I wonder if his wife liked it like this, or if he does. Regardless, it dissolves any remaining sense I have and I feel the happy rumble in my throat before I realise he's going to be able to hear it and I can't even gather myself enough to feel ashamed.

He squeezes and lets go, his hands drifting up to rest on my lumbar again, and I'm disappointed. I grab for the door handle and it's still immovable. 

'Didn't work,' I say. _Try harder._ I shift my attention to his neck and he makes a deliciously gratifying sound in his throat.

'Fine. Your turn,' he gasps in my ear.

'May I?' I mock, and I move my hand off his hip to his waistband, the back of my knuckles grazing his lower belly. In light trackie bottoms he's going to feel everything and so am I. I bite at his neck and he squeaks.

'Yeah,' he breathes, and I feel his jaw clench, the muscles in his neck taut under my teeth.

I pray to the god of doors to keep it locked a little longer, even though I know, academically, that every minute that passes puts us closer to having an audience on the other side of the door. I let my hand slip downward, shifting my leg to make room between his thighs. I turn my wrist, and skate my fingertips over the fabric, down, down, ‘til they're deep in the heat of his crotch and he's whimpering into my hair. I drag them back up, spreading them to encompass all he has to offer, still a feather light touch. I can feel him though, every soft curve and every hard one. When I reach the tip, I press my palm against him and he twitches under me, his whole body tensing. When I bite down on his neck he practically grunts. I almost miss the click of the lock. 

He doesn't.

His head turns toward the sound and I disengage immediately, leaving his neck wet and his trousers slightly tented. Mine aren't much better but a quick charm hides my enthusiasm nicely. 

He looks at me, eyes blown wide, panting a little. 'Right,' he says, and he looks down at himself, hand drifting instinctively to the red patch on his neck, the tiny indentations of my teeth.

'Do you want me to…?' I ask, it's harder to hide the evidence if you can't see it.

He looks up like I'm offering something else, and I'm reminded of last night when I thought he was offering something too, but he just _Scourgified_ my come away.

'Your neck, I can heal it. Or Glamour it, if you'd rather keep it? I don't mind.'

'Oh, yeah, whichever.'

I step back into his space and touch my wand to the redness, whispering the charm to hide it. I look down and he clears his throat, uncomfortable. 'There's a charm for that too,' I say. 'If it's natural, of course, chemically induced arousal can't be persuaded away in the same fashion.' I wouldn't want him to think last night could've been avoided.

'Please,' he says, and I touch my wand to the bulge, completely unnecessarily, but I do like to mess with him.

I whisper the spell and he breathes a sigh of relief. 'That was different than the first time, when you got here.'

'That one was a curse, I countered it. This one was your own doing, I merely suggested to your blood it might be put to better use elsewhere.'

'My own doing?'

'Well. I didn't put us alone together in a room.'

'Of course, absolutely my fault, so sorry,' he quips. 'Dickhead.'

He doesn't stick around, just turns and walks out, the heavy door smooth on it's hinges. I watch him walk away.


	7. Don't give it any help, it knows too much already

**_Harry_ **

I don't really know what’s going on but there's no space inside the house for me to think about it and maybe out in the expanse of the countryside my feelings about what just happened won't all feel so suffocating and huge. The sky is always bigger than our problems, Luna says. I look up and the clouds are heavy and dense but everything beyond them is pale, an undemanding sort of blue and Luna's right, it is a comfort.

Mill and Lisa are standing around a pile of training gear — pads and gloves and mats and all manner of things to jump on or over or through. It's rare for us to have this much space to use and it mimics "the field" nicely — more so than our padded, windowless combat training room, anyway. I imagine they're waiting for me to set up a course. I hope they are. I just kissed Malfoy, I could do with the distraction.

Lord. _I kissed Malfoy_. Even _thinking_ it scares me — what if I develop some sort of verbal projective vomiting and _tell them_. Clearly, I can't control my mouth or it wouldn't have been all over Malfoy's. Or my legs — can I trust them to keep me walking in the right direction when they fell open so easily for him? My hands — traitorous soldiers that crossed the front line and grabbed the enemy's arse and ran over the tight corded muscles of his back and slid around the velvet of his nape and I cannot stop thinking about it. Someone needs to fight me. Do we have any swords?

'Hey,' I say when I reach them.

'What's up with you?' Lisa asks immediately. Millicent just scowls like she's trying to read my thoughts, and hey, fuck, she might be, secret Legimens aren't exactly unheard of, and she's a Slytherin, so of course she'd have concealed weapons.

'Nothing. Obstacle course? Want me to lay it out?'

'No,' Millicent says. 'Teams lay a course, challenge the other teams to it.'

'We thought we'd get them fighting dorm to dorm,' Lisa adds. 'And maybe add some "perps" so they have to dodge curses as well. Seems a shame to waste the opportunity all this space gives us.'

'Cool.' Damn. 'So… what do you need me to do?' I ask, hopeful, but dreading they're going to say, ' _Nothing, Harry. Go relax, be with your thoughts_.'

'Go away?' Mill says. 'You and Draco had them all morning, take the afternoon off. We're outside so Ghost Bitch isn't going to get us. And I want a Coke Zero. Go to the shop or something. Take Draco, see if you can find something for him to play with, he seems in a snit about something.'

He seemed _quite happy_ last I saw him, but I can hardly tell her that. And I can't offer to be the thing he plays with, no matter how much I might want to be, right now. Wait. Do I? Really? It was good, I guess. No one's kissed me like that before. It's… distracting to think about. Is this how girls feel, when they get all swoony and in a flap and crave being shoved up against something and ravaged within an inch of their lives? I can still feel his teeth on my neck and I guess he chose to hide it rather than heal it and I want to know what that means, but there's only two people I could ask about it in this whole county and I am not giving _them_ , the two women in front of me, anything else. They can tell something’s up already. I guess that’s the downside of having ex-Aurors for friends. They notice when you’re having a bit of a freak-out in your head about kissing someone.

This is definitely staying a secret.

I hope.

Oh my god, what if his glamour wears off my neck? Is my hair a mess? Do I _look_ like I've been humping someone's leg? Do I have stubble burn? Should I just run away from them?

'Yeah, alright,' I say. 'Lisa, you want anything from the shop?'

'I'll take a Fanta.'

'Right. Okay. See you later then?'

'We'll go in and start prepping dinner at five, this lot don't need supervision if they stay out here. Take your time. Go for a beer or something.'

There's something in her voice I don't quite trust but there's nothing weird in what she's said, so I nod and turn back to the house, aware it means seeing Malfoy again almost immediately after running away from him but also knowing that might be better than letting Millicent continue to stare at me 'til her Legilimency starts working.

This was all a terrible idea.


	8. Would your family welcome a serious investigation of these disturbances?

**_Draco_ **

She's obviously satisfied with our little over-the-clothes grope but I'm left feeling a little weird (and definitely not satisfied). It's one thing to consent to being manhandled by your former nemesis for a genuine reason, it's another altogether to find you actually rather like it. But it’s quite fine. I can entertain myself for the afternoon by trying to stop thinking about it and not quite managing. I can mull over the fact that, yes, as Millicent was so quick to point out, I did fancy him in school. And I then got over it. Completely. And now that’s ruined by a cheap vest, a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a touch of voyeurism. And one kiss. Well. Two kisses. Perhaps it’s a quarter-life crisis.

What if I actually like him though? What if this is what I want — to be with him? What if the infantile fantasies of a perpetually aroused eighteen-year-old boy are what this bored, tired, thirty-year-old man needs? What if I get attached and make a spectacle of myself? What if he still loathes me? What if he doesn’t? What if I really do get to be his first port of call on his trip through GAYLAND? What if I get to be his last?

_Get to be?_

I'm spiralling into a pit of thoughts far too earth-shattering to be having in public and I need to realign myself. It's almost two o'clock, I'll call home and say hello to Scorpius — he should be up from his nap. Nothing like being told off by the fruit of your loins to tamper any sort of arousal. 

There's a large fireplace in the lobby, easily within sight of the oversized front doors, so I should be safe enough by myself. I'd expect Madam doesn't have any sort of particular perversion for the entry hall, but its obvious parallels make me wary none-the-less. I move toward it and my body feels weird. Jittery. I employ yoga breathing, and force myself to unclench. I don’t feel like it works very well. I call home anyway.

Scorpius is indeed up, though still in his pyjamas, when the Floo connects and he barrels toward the fireplace, one of the free elves who staff the house popping into existence between the child and the flame in plenty of time to halt his progress. They're very efficient.

'Papa!' he whines, reaching for me. Apparently my sins have been forgiven.

'Hello, Scorpius, remember to be careful of the fire, say thank you to Alphie for reminding you and keeping you safe.'

'Thank you, Affie,' he says and stops struggling to give the elf a cuddle. He's a wildly affectionate child and Alphie is definitely his favourite. 'Where are you, Papa?'

'I'm in Devon, with Millie. Do you remember Millie?'

'She has a dog,' he says, which is as good as a yes.

'Yes, she does, do you remember his name?'

'No, he licked my face.' Always with the pertinent facts.

'He did. Have you done anything exciting today?' I refrain from telling what exciting things I’ve done.

'Um…' he ponders, and Alphie manoeuvres him into a sitting position on the hearth while he's distracted by the goings on in his own head. 'I saw a caterpillar.'

'Really?' I ask, and construct a mental image of him in the garden with Mother — she hates getting dirty but she loves fussing over the flowers, I've suggested hydroponics but she doesn't seem to listen to anything I say anymore. I imagine someone in her brunch club will bring it up in six months and she'll love the idea.

'Grammama said I should squash it but I didn't so she poked it with her wand and it went away.'

'Good on you for not squashing it,' I say, trying not to frown at my mother's barbarism in front of the child. 'It's mean to squash things.'

'I know, I told Grammama.'

'Good boy.' I smirk, I can just imagine Mother's face when he said it. She has a distaste for animals and her tiny grandchild is not remotely on board with it. He'd have kept it as a pet if she'd let him. Maybe he's old enough for a trip to the menagerie. He'd more than likely choose a Puffskein anyway and they're hardly a bother.

'Papa, when are you coming home?'

'In three days. Do you remember the days of the week? Today is Tuesday. Tomorrow is…?'

'Wednesday. Then it's Thursday.'

'Yes, and the day after that?'

'Friday Try-day,' he says. 'What food are we trying?'

'I don't know, but I'll be home on Friday so we can try it together.' He frowns at me. 'I'll bring you something from Devon.' I try and appease him, as usual.

'Can you bring me a caterpillar?'

'No.'

'Please, Papa?' The puppy eyes come out, he should be a model for an animal shelter or biscuits or something.

'There aren't any caterpillars in Devon,' I say, and shoot a glance at Alphie, who's sitting quietly with the back of Scorp's jumper clamped in his fist, just in case, and smirking discreetly into his tiny little kaftan. 'I'll bring you a stick of rock instead. It sort of looks like a smooth caterpillar if you squint.'

'What's squint?' he asks, and I can't be bothered explaining because I'm terrible so I distract him instead.

'Do you know what you're having for dinner?'

'No,' he says. 'Can I have ice cream?'

'I don't know, you should go and ask your grandmother later.'

'Okay. Where are you?'

'I told you, I'm in Devon,’ I say, not that he knows where Devon is. ‘Do you want to see? If you're careful, Alphie will help you look through the green fire like we do when we call your Auntie Daphne.'

'Yes, I want to see.'

'And what are the rules with the fireplace? Do you remember the song?'

'Orange fires hurts your face, green fires show another place, talk to family using Floo, but only if adults helps you.'

'Perfect,' I grin. He's adorable. But I'm still petrified he'll one day go looking for me in actual fire and die. I turn to the only thing standing between me and a mental breakdown — paid help. 'Alphie?'

'Yes, Mister Malfoy, when you're ready.'

I uncurl from my hunched posture and straighten up out of the fireplace. I stretch my neck, turning to the right, then left. Potter is standing in the doorway, watching.

'Hello,' I say, as every muscle that's finally unclenched tightens again in the knowledge of his presence.

'Sorry, I didn't mean to stop you. I just—' He looks very, very uncomfortable, and still my eyes slide down his torso to his crotch and away again. Apparently I don't desire anyone poised and articulate anymore, awkward and casually ripped is enough. 'I didn't want to go into the house alone after last time and the girls sent me inside, so…'

'It's fine,' I say, wondering if the idea in my head is too much of a step. 'I've called home, would you like to meet my son?'

'Oh, er…' He looks a bit taken aback, maybe it is too much. What would I know? This is the first time I've ever had a child to introduce to someone I've just made out with. Whose cock I've just grabbed through his clothes. Who I have to share a bed with again tonight. There's no handbook for that, is there? I doubt Flourish & Blotts has a section on “Oh God I Have To Start Dating Again”?

'You don't have to,' I say, pitching my voice to sound casual. 'But you're right — we should stay together for our own safety and it seems peculiar to talk to him with you in the room and not introduce you.'

'Okay. Though, it’s starting to look like…’ He smiles wryly towards the floor. ‘I think us being alone _together_ is probably as much of an issue as either of us being actually alone.' He flicks his eyes up to mine, and the acknowledgement of what we've done — what we've had to do — in the last 24 hours, is… bracing. My heart picks up again and I force a long, slow breath. 

I smile, even though I’m busy wondering what he means with the word, “issue”. Good issue? Bad issue? Undecided?

'It does seem to be going that way,’ I say. ‘I'm too tired to be going through any sort of sexual trauma alone, though. You didn't look like you’d enjoyed it much when I first arrived.'

'Fair. I did not.' He takes a few steps away from the doorframe and into the house proper. 

I'm tempted to ask if he preferred going through his sexual trauma _with me_ , but I don't. 'Come sit.' I shuffle over a bit so there's room on the hearth rug. 'It might be a minute. Scorpius isn’t exactly an expert at using the Floo.'

'Will he be surprised to see me?'

'Of course, but he likes surprises.' I smirk, and let my eyes roam all over his body as he folds himself onto the floor. 'My son's almost nothing like me at all.'

'Neither are mine. Thankfully.'

I allow him his ironic self-loathing and we wait a few seconds before the flames waver and my son's face appears, little eyebrows drawn together in worry.

'Papa?'

'Scorpius. This is my friend Harry, do you want to say hello?'

'Hello, Harry. Why are you there?'

'He—' 

'I—'

'You go,' I gesture toward the flames and the cherubic face within them. 'It's your life.'

'Okay.' He puts on a smile. 'Hello, Scorpius. I'm a teacher, and your dad is helping me teach new Aurors.'

'What's a Aurra?'

'We saw some in Diagon once,' I remind him. 'Bright red robes, shiny boots, not very clever?' I wait for a well-deserved elbow to the ribs but none comes.

'They catched someone who was naughty,' Scorpius says, nodding.

'They did. Harry used to be an Auror.'

'Are you Papa's boyfriend?'

 _Oh fuck_. The little bastard.

There's a slightly strangled sound beside me. 'Er, no.'

'Why?' Scorpius asks.

'Um. I don't… know?' 

I feel my face flush and wonder if death is an option. Or if Her Ladyship could just _Obliviate_ me a bit. Why did I want children?

'My Mama doesn't live on Earth anymore so Papa can have a boyfriend.'

'Well,' Potter clears his throat and I wonder what all of this says about my parenting choices. Is he judging me or do his children do this too? Embarrass us in ways we couldn't have imagined? 'I hope he finds a nice one that brings you lots of chocolates and a puppy. And coffee. Do you like coffee, Scorpius?'

'He's joking,' I cut in as Scorpius' eyes widen. 'Puppies and coffees are horrible, very smelly.'

'I like puppies,' Scorpius says, and I don't know how he can know this, but I'm going to blame my mother. Lord knows where she takes him when I'm at work.

'You shouldn't,' I say. 'They're messy and germy and they stink.'

'Like poos, Papa?' he whispers, his face curious and innocent. Potter snorts beside me.

'I think I hear your grandmother calling, can you see her?' I try and waylay him again. It doesn't seem to work.

'Papa—'

'Love you, I have to go now,' I put my hand on the shut-off lever. 'Oh look, there she is, behind you.' I point and the second his face is gone, I pull the lever and turn to the arsehat sitting cross-legged beside me.

'Puppies and coffee?'

'Am I your boyfriend?' he counters, grinning. 

'He asked the postman the other day, Potter, you aren't special.'

'You called me Harry a minute ago.'

'Shut up. I need a cup of tea,' I say and heave myself off the floor, brushing my trousers down. 

By the looks of it, we have the entire afternoon free and we've just agreed it's safer to spend it together. Even if we do end up having to do things we normally wouldn’t. However, my son has also just reframed the entire thing as something else and the level of discomfort I'm experiencing is real. I have no idea if it's bothering Potter in the same way. He seemed taken aback at the question about being my boyfriend, but now he's able to grin and take the piss about it and I don't know what that means. Is it fine with him? Is it so laughable he's not taking it seriously? Do I want him to take it seriously? _Do I want him to be my actual boyfriend?_

I look down at him, still sitting at my feet. It’s not a horrible idea, if you can forget our entire grisly history. 'Are you coming?' I ask, and he gets up effortlessly; maybe he does do yoga. 

'I could do a tea,' he says, then pauses. 'I meant to ask though… are there really no caterpillars in Devon?'

I roll my eyes and turn off down the hall so he can't see me blush again. 'Fuck off. What was I supposed to say?'

His voice comes from right behind my shoulder. 'I don't know, my children usually ask for sweets rather than wildlife.'

'That's what I said I'd bring. Where am I going to get some around here?'

'We aren't far from Exeter, we could apparate. I'll need to do some shopping too.' He looks down at himself as he pulls up beside me. 'Maybe after a shower though.'

'Please.'

'Sorry, do I smell like a puppy?'

'Fuck off, Potter, let's have a cup of tea before we try to decide anything else, shall we?'

'Harry,' he says, close enough I can feel his heat against my arm. 'You called me Harry and you can't go back on it.'

Problem is, I don't even want to.

~

I've had two cups of tea while I’ve waited for him to shower, door wedged open with a large brass umbrella stand just in case, and I think I might have a solution to his earlier concerns about consent. He emerges fully clothed and I'm a touch disappointed that I still haven't gotten to see that chest in all its muscled glory. Probably a matter of time, though, considering.

'What do you think she'll do tonight?' I ask him as he towel dries his hair like some sort of Muggle. 'Academically, you see, I'm wondering if we were to… anticipate her needs, it might mean we can forestall her meddling. We might be granted more of a choice in, er, the performance offerings.'

He stops scrounching at his hair and looks up at me from under a dark, wet fringe, eyes wide. It occurs to me this is the first time we've talked about our forced intimacy _before_ we were under the influence of it. It feels a bit momentous. Like we’ve accepted it. Are anticipating it. I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m looking forward to it.

'Are you saying that if we consent to do something before she demands it, it's suddenly okay? Whether we would've done it without her or not?'

Okay. Fair. As much as I might want his first proper sexual experience with a man to be with me, I'm certainly not going to let it be something he doesn't want to happen. 'No. I'm saying, why don't we think of something we don’t mind doing, and do that, and see if it works. She'll either be satisfied and leave us alone or we can go to Plan B — fire. I mean, If she wants to escalate this beyond what we're comfortable with, then I don't think it's unreasonable to set her house on fire. But I also don't think it's a big deal to appease her if it's something we could both enjoy anyway. We're grown-ups, we're both single, we know each other fairly well. It's not… a horrible idea.'

'You want us to get off with each other, voluntarily, so she'll let us sleep?'

'Yes. Academically I think it's the right choice.'

'What about non-academically?'

I shrug. 'It… wouldn't be my first foray into casual…' I don't want to say "sex" and scare him, so I go with, ‘affection,' and just end up making myself blush again. 

He goes back to towelling his hair, face hidden. I hear him sigh.

'It was only a suggestion,' I say. 'We obviously don't have to. I just think, it seems to be escalating, and I don't know what she'll expect us to do next, and I don't really fancy the old, “wait-and-see” approach. It's making me anxious.'

'I'm sorry,' he says, pulling the towel off his head. 'I don't think you're being unreasonable, it's technically a very good idea, but…' He makes a vague gesture with his hands, giving up part-way through.

'But what? If you have another suggestion, I'm all ears. I'm just not sure where we can go from last time that won't start to encroach on things you'd probably rather happened with someone else you actually like and want to date. I know we're old now, and less sentimental about first times and whatnot, but you'll always remember your first time with a man and I don't want you look look back and resent me for something I didn't even have that much of a choice in.' 

Saying it out loud makes it sound so much worse than it feels, and I realise what this must look like from outside my head. I don't object to fooling around with _him_ at all, but if it was someone else, someone I didn't want all over me… I'd be the one threatening to burn the place down. 

'I won't resent you, it's not your fault. I chose to stay here, and to go ahead with the whole exercise. And I guess I'm choosing to _keep_ staying even though it's a bit—' He looks up at the ceiling. 'It's a bit weird. But, it's not your fault it's weird. You're actually being surprisingly okay about it.' 

'It doesn't really bother me,' I say. Understatement of the century, since I'm pretty sure I’m actually quite liking it. 'You're not completely unfortunate and it's nothing I haven't done before with those less deserving.'

'Oh. Please. Draco,' he deadpans, 'don't flatter me like this.'

'You know what I mean. You have more to lose. So just… promise you’ll let me know when it gets too much and we can take the pyrotechnical way out if need be.'

'The DMLE will kill me if I destroy another property.'

I smirk. 'Yes, I never quite heard exactly what happened with that place. Pray, tell. Legend has it you blew it up with a Muggle device.'

'You weren't _meant_ to hear exactly, it was need-to-know,' he says, and his face softens with nostalgia. A flick of his wrist and his towel is floating back into the bathroom. He turns to me with a smile on his face and I want to kiss him again. And I probably can. I wonder if he’ll let me do it if we aren’t even trapped?

'I need to know if you're a danger to me, Potter,' I say, and get up, watching to see if he’s looking. I walk up to him, stopping a little too close. He smells of something familiar, musky and crisp like expensive broom polish. He stands there, gaze fixed on my shoulder, not meeting my eye. 'Are you?'

'No,' he says. 'Assuming you're not made of combustible materials.'

'No, but I'm quite hot, is that a problem?'

His eyes flick up. 'You're not that hot.'

'Is that why what's happening bothers you so much?’ I ask, and I’m fishing, honestly. I can’t really tell if this truly bothers him or if he’s just pretending to put up a fight to save himself from having to admit he likes it. I can’t blame him, I was having trouble admitting it to myself not long ago. ‘Because I'm not your type?'

'I don't have a type.'

'Just a coincidence you've only dated Seekers, then? Gryffindor’s. Ravenclaw’s. Rumour has it you were even invited to have a romantic bath with a certain Hufflepuff as well, but politely declined. Would you have had one with me?'

'What the—?’ He takes half a step back. ‘Are you flirting with me?'

'Are you a hundred percent sure she's going to let us out of this room if I don't?' 

'You want to test your theory now?' he says, and he finally looks into my eyes. 'When we aren't even stuck?'

'Maybe this is how we stay unstuck.'

'Ugh. Fine.' He sighs at me, and grabs my face, and kisses me, and I let him. And it's glorious.


	9. Someone who can make firsthand observations

**_Harry_ **

'It's not that weird kissing you,' I say, staying close enough that I don't have to look at him when I say it. He opens his mouth like he has something to say about it, though, so I kiss him again. And it's true, it's not weird at all, unless it's weird for me to really, really like it. Somehow the prickly edges of his personality, and the years of despising each other, and all that other _shit_ , is making it _better_. More of a thrill. Maybe it's a terrible idea, but I miss the danger of active duty and this is so close to disaster it's almost as good. There's a level of uncertainty. My heart rate is elevated. His hands are everywhere at once. I have no idea in any given second if we're about to fall into bed or I'm going to do something wrong and get hexed. Knowing him, maybe both. 'Hey,' I say against his lips. He freezes and I don't know what that means, so I power through. 'Let's just do this later and maybe she'll get bored waiting for something else to happen.' Shopping for sweets and souvenirs will be far more bearable if I have something to look forward to.

'Potter, that's what I meant when I said I didn't fancy the "wait-and-see approach",' he drawls, his hands sliding down my back, disengaging from their possessive grip around my shoulders. 'Maybe she'll get bored, but maybe when she does it'll get _worse_.' He steps back, eyebrow raised.

'Whatever, let's go. We can talk about it while we're looking for a souvenir shop.' I turn away from him and look for my stuff. 'And an off-license. I wouldn't mind a beer tonight if we're playing chicken with a poltergeist.'

'I agree with the sentiment but beer might not cut it,' he says, checking his holster is secure. 'Do you have Muggle currency?'

'I do, do you?' 

'I have a thousand pounds. Will that be enough?'

'Depends on what you're planning on drinking instead of beer,' I say, marvelling at his complete uselessness in the non-magical world, still, after all these years. 'I think you can get vodka that has real gold flakes in it.'

'That sounds tacky, and vodka is for teenagers.'

So is making out, but he was happy to do that. We should go before I get curious about what else he's happy to do. Though, from the sounds of it, _everything_. I feel like a healthy dose of fear would be more useful when dealing with him than my curiosity would. 

I don't know how far this will go, or even how far I want it to go. He's right, I definitely won't forget my first time with a man, but I'm already not going to forget any of this, so it seems moot. 

I spend the silent walk back downstairs mulling over whether or not I'm a closet romantic. Do I want to wait and experience this new stuff with someone I really like, or do I want to get it over with so I can get out there and enjoy sex again without having to attribute significance to any of it? Maybe he's the safest option. He'd certainly never talk to the press about it, and we wouldn't be ruining any sort of friendship, or chance at something more, if it goes horribly. If it turns out I suck at blowjobs, I'm not going to care that much that he didn't enjoy it. If he's no good at them, I'm not going to have to put up with it for long. 

'You've gone very quiet,' he says, pulling the front door closed behind us. 

'I was thinking.'

'Do I want to know about what?'

'I don't know,' I say, because I don't. He seems okay with casual "affection", as he calls it. Does that include blowjobs? Is he going to try and give me one as part of his experiment, or are we going to stick to the PG sort of stuff? Would he be grossed out by me picturing him doing it? He mentioned getting up to stuff years ago at school — how far did that even go? Were they all actually having _sex_ sex or just fooling around? Is he insinuating he's done more than he has, or is he going to turn out to be some sort of specialist Crotch Wizard, and I'll be ruined for the rest of my life? 'I don't really know you well enough to say.'

'I prefer information to secrecy.'

'Do you still have the van keys?' I ask, hoping he isn't planning on driving. I believe that he can, but I can't feel confident about his ability to do so safely if he still can't work out simple Muggle money. 

'Yes, are you going to tell me what you were thinking?'

'If you let me drive, I'll tell you _one_ of the things I was thinking.'

'Acceptable.' He hands me the keys. 'Though I thought we were Apparating?'

'Oh. Yeah. I'm not really in the mood for coordinate Apparition anymore. Bit distracted.'

'By those thoughts you won't tell me?'

'I'll tell you _one_.'

Once we're in the van and he's badgered me a sufficient amount, I end up asking him if he's any good at sex. I figure that's the one least likely to result in repeat questions, and I'm right. He doesn't even answer the question I do ask. Which is a relief in some ways but I'd like to have known, even if he was going to be biased in his answer. At least if he felt confident, I wouldn't have to.

Instead he chatters about Curse-Breaking, telling a bunch of stories from his early twenties in random parts of Europe. Stories where he almost died, or broke something expensive, or came across a bizarre object that (apparently, always) turned out to be a fertility totem. It's almost as if he doesn't want me to get a chance to ask him anything else. This evidence of his actual human feelings is surprisingly disarming and I end up with a bag of sweets, a couple six-packs of very hoppy craft beer, and a strange sort of soft spot for him and the squishiness under all his bravado.

We're back in time to help with dinner, to drink ourselves hazy, and to have a go at doing yoga half-cut. It's ridiculous, and we should probably excuse ourselves instead of giggling at the back of the group, but it's too endearing to see him happy and loose and packed in skin tight lycra. He wasn't kidding about bringing his leggings, and they leave little to the imagination. The combination of shining black arse and my vivid memories of last night make me very glad I'm not wearing anything so clingy myself. I'm almost looking forward to bedtime.

He doesn't change out of them for tea and cake either, and I almost declare that I'm thankful for Lululemon but remember myself just in time. Mill is shooting us furtive glances that make me nervous she knows something, so I ask him about it once we're alone in our room.

'Of course I didn't tell her what's happening to us, we agreed that was a terrible idea. I haven't even told her I'm not sleeping downstairs.'

'What if she goes looking for you?'

'We grew up together,’ he scoffs. ‘She knows better than to interrupt my sleep.'

'Well I don't think she'd offer me the same courtesy. What if she finds you in here?' 

'All my things are still downstairs, so we tell her the truth, that downstairs is awful and I refuse to sleep there. We just won't mention when exactly it was that I abandoned my room to avoid that particularly creepy bit of haunting.'

'But why would you come to _me_ in that instance?' I ask.

'Same reason I actually did when it happened: so you'll swap with me.'

'Why would she believe I'd do that?'

'Because you _did_ swap with me,’ he says, smug. ‘You're exactly the sort of self sacrificing fool to do it.'

'Yeah, well.’ He’s not wrong. ‘On the topic of self-sacrifice. We should, you know… get started. I'm tired and the thought of sleeping through the night is a really nice one.'

'Such romance.'

'I'm not here to _romance_ you out of your skin-tight trousers.'

'You like them?' he asks, turning to give me a better view of his arse.

'I reckon the ghost probably does since she likes an exhibition.'

He huffs a laugh. 'I reckon she'd be more interested in your interest in them.'

'I'm not interested in them,' I say.

'Oh, shall I just take them off, then?'

'Whatever you're comfortable with, Malfoy.' But also, yes, please do. 'I think I can probably handle seeing you in your pants.'

'Bold of you to assume I'm wearing any.'

'Bold of you to assume I’d care.' I do. I do care. Please show me.

'Ouch. There's no need to be mean.’ He frowns. ‘You could play along a bit. She's not going to like us bitching at each other.'

'She's not or you're not?'

'I'm used to your bitching,' he says and I almost laugh.

'The hypocrisy is almost unbelievable.'

'Yes, well, so is your arse.’ He smirks. ‘Get in the bed.'

' _You_ get in the bed,' I counter, because surely he must be teasing, and that’s a bit mean. Also, making out with him in a bed seems far scarier than anything else so far.

'Eventually we both have to or it's not going to work.'

'Whatever.' I grab my pyjamas from under the pillow and shut myself in the bathroom, not expecting I’ll get stuck in here alone if she knows we’re planning to do stuff soon. I brush my teeth, full of concern I’m being over-confident about that.

When I come back out, he _is_ in bed, reading glasses perched on his nose and notebook on his lap. Shirtless. He's writing something down, and I'm reminded of what it was like to be married and coming to bed to find your wife with her nose in a book and no chance of getting any sex. This time, though, I'm _hoping_ there won't be sex. I think. I'm not sure I want to go through the awkwardness of a first try at it with Malfoy. Not yet, anyway. Maybe I'll feel differently once it starts. How does it start?

I notice his yoga leggings laid over the back of a chair and wonder if he's wearing pyjamas under the duvet. True to his word, I don't see any underpants nearby. Unless he's wearing them still. Why does it matter? We're just here to do a thing so we can sleep. I slide under the covers and pat them down over my lap. This is weird, in a bed. Kissing him earlier was less weird. I guess because we were about to go out so it wasn't going to escalate, and we were standing up over there and not actually in the bed where the serious stuff happens. Hell, I sound like a scared teenager.

There's a shuffle and a click-click of glasses folding — a sound I know well — then the mattress shifts. I look, and he's putting his things on the bedside table. His back is long and smooth and there's zero evidence of pyjamas or pants or anything. I feel overdressed. Should I take my shirt off? 

He turns back before I can decide so I leave it.

'This is far more awkward than I expected,' he says, surprising me with his honesty. I'm beginning to think he might actually be a human person.

'Yeah.'

'You should take your glasses off.'

'Okay,' I say, and I feel silly because of course I should, that's obvious. I place them on the bedside table, and a thought occurs to me. 'Can ghosts see in the dark?'

'I would expect so.'

'Shall I turn out the light then?'

'If you want.'

'I don't mind.'

'Is it going to be less weird if you do, do you think?' he asks.

'It can't hurt at this stage,' I say and _Nox_ the lights. 'Hi.'

'Hi.' He's quiet for a moment. 'It got weirder.'

'Yeah, well. There's a certain sort of expectation when you're in bed with someone with the lights out. And it's been a very long time since I was in a bed with someone I wasn't married to.'

The sound of rustling sheets indicates he's probably trying to stare at me. 'Who were you in bed with before your wife?'

'No one really. Not like that.'

'Weasley, then?'

'And Hermione. That winter. Luna too, once. It was hard to be alone and it was cold. We did what we had to.'

'Grim,’ he agrees. ‘Regardless, I'd have taken it over cohabitating with a dozen Death Eaters. To be fair, though, none of them were in my bed.'

'Shame. They were all such giant dicks.'

'All an act,’ he says and I can see he’s smiling now that my eyes are adjusting to the darkness. ‘Men who crave power tend to have very little of their own, if you get my meaning.'

I look toward his lap. 'Is your meaning, _“all Death Eaters have small cocks”_?'

'Present company excluded, if you will.'

'Of course, I'm sure your cock's very powerful. Why are we talking about this?'

'I foolishly thought life couldn't get more awkward but I'd not considered how a discussion about my father's friends' cocks could possibly occur.' He sighs and lies back on the bed.

'It does seem weird to be thinking about your dad's dick right now when we're meant to be making out.' I can’t help myself from fucking with him, even now.

'Yes, please stop me from talking.'

'I could gag you?'

'Not— Lord. I didn't expect you to be kinky, Potter.' There’s a rustle and I see him roll onto his side.

'Is it kinky, though, if I just want you to be quiet?'

'Can we just start, before either she gets bored or I decide this is too mortifying and go back downstairs to sleep in the hell-pit. I swear this whole thing is giving me grey hairs.'

'Fine,’ I say. ‘Go on. Come at me.' There’s zero chance I’m starting this, not this time.

'Why me?' he asks.

'I started last time.' And also the domestic bedroom setting is reminding me a lot of real life, which isn’t helping. 'And you're better at it anyway.' I wonder if flattery will work.

'You literally pounced on me without even blinking today, you're hardly incompetent.'

'You pushed me up against a door and pinned me there,’ I point out. ‘Normally that only happens to nice girls in romance novels. It's like you're not even real.'

He moves quickly, coming out of the semi-darkness to push me into the mattress.

'You liked that, then?’ he whispers. ‘Being pinned?'

I do, I really, really do. 'It was fine.'

'Fine enough that you mentioned it.'

'Well, it's one of those things girls don't really do, isn't it?’ I say. ‘It was a nice change.'

'Your ex-wife never got rough with you? Held you down?'

'She's five foot three,' I point out.

'Well, I've got at least nine inches on her then,' he says, smooth as all that, and then his nine inches is on me, pressed up against my hip while he licks at my neck. 

He finds the exact spot where he marked me earlier in the day, holding me against a door, and the visceral memory of it slides me back in time. It was safer then, though, close enough to being in public, and my panic mostly based on the fact it was the first time I'd properly kissed a guy (and a little bit because it was him). Now, it's just the two of us alone, in private, with no one to disturb us and nothing to keep us in check. Nothing to keep _him_ in check. I'm still scared to take my pants off for a man. Keen, but scared. Is that normal? Simultaneous thirst and extreme wariness? I don't know. I don't know _anything_.

I'm laid out in an ornate four poster bed in a haunted mansion, being delicately humped by a man (oh my god) that I've known for a couple of decades and never really liked before, or trusted, and yet… Twin thrills twist up the length of my spine as I feel his teeth graze my skin and his fingers come to rest gently on my throat. I like this. I don't know if it makes me crazy, or hypocritical, or just naive, or if maybe I'm overthinking it and should shut up and enjoy it. Maybe it’s me I should be worried about. Keeping my own urges in check. It’s been six weeks, after all.

I mean, he's nice looking, even in yoga pants. He's good at his job, even if he is a grumpy bastard sometimes. He's shifting his thigh between my legs and I can feel the warm muscle pressing against what is, admittedly, a very swiftly-achieved semi. All evidence I should just stop thinking.

But is this how I want it to be? For Draco Malfoy to be the first person I get off with after a fourteen year relationship and two and a half kids and the love of my life turning out to just… not be the love of my _entire_ life, maybe? Is this what I want to do — get off with guys I work with, guys who just happen to be gay enough and nearby? Guys who are… being forced to make out with me because of a supernatural force?

It doesn't sound very romantic.

Does that… matter?

Do I want making out with Draco Malfoy to _be romantic_?

'Potter?' He's stopped nuzzling my neck and he's looking at me. Staring. 'Are you having a fit or something?'

'Er. No?'

'You look like you're in the middle of a very painful epiphany.' He eases away from me, his thigh no longer pressed against my throbbing crotch. I miss it instantly. 'Are you sure you're bisexual?'

'Yes. Definitely.'

'What are you _not_ sure of?'

'Um. I just. It feels a bit shallow, doesn't it?'

'I don't know, does it?'

'I— well. It's not like—' Oh, fuck me blind, I wish I could use English words properly. 'I was married for a really long time and I don't, like… It feels a bit weird to be in bed with you when we're not…'

'Potter, are you freaking out because we're in bed together and we aren't married?'

'No. Just, this feels like it's moving really quickly, and it's making me nervous.'

'Right.’ He settles on his side. ‘Well, we could just cuddle and hope for the best.'

'I didn't mean that, I just— I guess I need a minute to think about it.'

'About what? What do you think I'm going to do to you that we haven't already done today with your enthusiastic consent?'

'I don't know,’ I say. ‘It's just different in bed. It feels more… I don't know. Serious? I thought it might escalate and we haven't talked about that yet.'

'Talked about what? What do you think I'm going to do?’ He manages to instill several people’s worth of disdain into his words. ‘Do you really think I'd— What? Force myself on you? For Merlin's sake, Potter. Thanks. Thanks a lot, you _interminable arsehole_.'

'Malfoy—'

'No,’ he says as he shifts to the edge of the bed. ‘I'm going downstairs where I can't possibly hope to sleep but at least no one thinks I'm about to _assault_ them.' He plucks his fancy dressing gown off the chair and tries to wrap it discreetly around himself without acknowledging the rather noticeable bulge in the front of it.

'I don't think you’re going to assault me,’ I try and keep my voice soothing. ‘I'm not worried about you… you know. Doing things. I just— It's very…' I want to use the word _exciting_ but it sounds so childish and stupid and absolutely not enough. 'Intoxicating. Being with you like this. I don't know if I would want to stop if you… you know. Did try something.'

He sniffs. 'Continue.'

'Well. It's not really proper is it? We're not kids, running around Hogsmeade, kissing in alleyways. We're adults. We can't just… I mean, I'm a father. So are you. I don't think random casual sex is something I should be indulging in.'

He sighs. 'There is so much wrong with your argument.'

'Can you just give me the top three points of your rebuttal? It's late and I'm tired and this is a bit much to be honest.'

'Fine. One, this isn't random casual sex, because it isn't sex at all. Two, you're an adult and you damn well _can_ just do what you want in the privacy of your own bedroom. Three—' He pauses, stares hard at the ground. He sighs. 'Intoxicating? Really? That's the word you use while you're trying to convince me we shouldn't be getting off with each other?'

'I'm not saying we shouldn't be,’ I say, and it’s true. I want it. I just want it in a way where I can’t fuck it up. ‘I'm just, maybe, wondering what the boundaries are. So I know.' 

'What would you like them to be?'

'Why do I have to choose?'

'Because you're the one having a meltdown about it when I haven't so much as kissed you.' He glares at me a little.

'Ok. Well. I don't really know.' I try and look innocent as I gaze up at him. It seems to work because he sits back down on the bed at least.

'Do you want me to kiss you?' he asks.

‘Yeah. I mean, we definitely should do something, since I doubt arguing is going to satisfy her.'

He sighs again, but he turns to me a little more, bringing his knee up on the bed. 'And do you anticipate enjoying it if I do kiss you?'

'Yeah. You’re not bad at it.'

He puts a hand down on the mattress, leaning closer to me. I feel the bed dip under his weight. He smiles. 'Would you be interested in grabbing my arse again?'

I feel my face heat. 'Not against it.'

'And may I touch you again?' His eyes drop into my lap and my mouth goes dry.

'Yeah.' I hear my voice quaver. 

'Will you feel more comfortable keeping your pants on?' He offers.

'Probably safer.'

'Would you like me to keep my pants on?'

'Er, not strictly necessary, actually.' He raises an eyebrow at me and I backpedal. 'It’s fine. However you are is fine.'

'Okay. Can I get back in bed or would you prefer me to freeze to death?'

'Yeah. Sure. Sorry.’

He shrugs out of his dressing gown and slings it over the chair. I feel myself tense as he lifts the covers and slides back in. I will myself to relax, to just go with whatever happens and trust it won’t get out of hand. Except that part of me really wants it to. 

'You should be in control if you're nervous,' he says, and leans back on his hands, staying on his side of the bed.

'I feel like you know what you're doing more,' I counter. 

'It's not rocket science, Potter. You did fine before.'

I did fine? I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Should I try again? I’d like to be considered better than just fine. I turn to face him and shuffle closer. Up close he looks a bit tight, uncomfortable. I feel shitty about it because it’s probably my fault.

'Hi,' I say, just to say something, and not really knowing what.

He sighs, tilting his head to the side a little and leaning forward a fraction. Just enough to be an invitation. 

'Shut up, Potter. Just kiss me.'

So I do. It’s like I said, just as good as when he pushed me against the door, but somehow more serious for the surroundings. I barely even bother to ease myself into it, probably far too eager, considering, but being near someone again is just… so _nice_.

I overbalance and he pulls me down onto him and we're in the reverse of where we were before. He's on his back with his fingers tangling in my hair and his other hand pulling my leg over his, slotting us together. The bumping of hard knees and the slide of soft skin and wiry leg hair and the welcoming heat of his package against my thigh is enough to make my heart pulse deep in my chest. He feels different from Gin. Harder, stronger. More aggressive. 

No, not aggressive. _Assertive_. He knows what he likes and he isn’t ashamed to like it. 

He’s not worried about not acting like a lady because he isn’t one. Gin, even after years of marriage, was always a little wary of letting herself go. The ingrained ideal of a docile, polite, ladylike wife was never something either of us harboured a preference for, and yet, despite the sports and the crass humour and the beer and crisps and fire that she embodied, there was something else at play in the bedroom. She never just pounced on me, never shoved me against anything. Never, _fuck_ , wrapped her arms around my waist and bucked up against my hips like Malfoy’s doing now.

‘Sorry,’ he breathes against my lips, before diving back into a kiss. 

‘S’okay,’ I tell him and grind down against him, so he knows I mean it. And it can’t hurt our chances of peace with Mrs Poltergasm. I bet she’d love it if we got off just from this. Just rubbing our semi-naked bodies against one another. I can’t blame her. I feel like I’d quite like it. Judging by the hard press against my hip, I’m guessing Draco’d quite like it. Do I have anything to lose? 

We’ve already set the boundaries — pants on. We’ve agreed to the intent — give her something to satisfy her needs so we can get some sleep. It’s a small playground but there’s still things worth doing in it… I lift my knee from where it’s resting between his and shift so I’m square on top of him, letting my knee drop back to the far side of his leg. I’m straddling him, basically. He flexes his hips in approval and groans into my mouth.

I roll my hips, marvelling at the sweet nostalgia of frottage. It’s like a warm bubble of sense memory, but with two hard dicks this time and no mysteriously hidden clitoris. It’s fucking excellent. He thrusts upward, hunting for pressure, friction, and I meet him; the smooth fabric of our pants sliding together, tempting us, so that we fall into a slow, steady rhythm with our mouths glued in a kiss and our hips moving in tandem. 

I don’t know which of us pushes it harder, faster, but soon his hands are on my arse, and my knees are spread wide, and the ridiculous decision to keep our pants on is seeming less and less important. My dick is pressing against my waistband, uncomfortable and damp and desperate for more. I wonder what would happen if…

‘Hey,’ I pull back from our kiss for just a second. ‘We don’t really need to keep our pants on, do we?’

‘You made the rule, Potter. Do what you want with it.’

It’s all the permission I need. I Banish our pants. He lets out a hiss of pleasure at the sudden press of skin on skin, and I marvel at the hundreds of new sensations making my heart flutter.

‘Wow,’ I breathe, and wish I hadn’t. 

‘Lift up for a sec,’ he says, and smacks at my hip. I comply, even though every inch of me misses the silky heat of his body. He swipes a hand over his own cock and I worry I’ve hurt him, but then he grabs mine and I feel the cool slide of lubricant and I stop worrying, or thinking at all, when he pulls me back down. The difference is… a lot. More maths than I can do when he’s pushing up against me. Our rhythm is more frantic than steady, now, my breath so ruined I can’t even kiss him. I settle for panting feebly into the crook of his neck as my pleasure mounts.

I can’t even tell who comes first or if we explode all over each other in unison, but the ending is quick and dirty and sticky and we lie side by side getting our breath back for a couple of minutes before he manages a wandless _Scourgify_ that smells like lemons. 

‘Okay, Potter?’ 

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, Ghost Perv?’ he asks the ceiling and I laugh, and he grins, and it’s the last thing I remember before I fall asleep.

~

The next day is full of drills with the recruits. The bottom level of the house set with traps and mild curses, and everyone sent through in pairs. Draco set it up early in the morning, and it’s perfect, and I’m impressed. Each pair of recruits goes in through the French doors of the solarium, through the ballroom, the entrance hall, the hallways with the main parlours and guest rooms, through the laundry that’s under the kitchen, and out the stables. 

We’ve settled the group in the inner courtyard with chairs and refreshments, and the four grown-ups have been able to simply sit and nurse cups of tea and watch the chaos through the windows. Mill and Lisa are taking notes for the half-year reports and I’ll no doubt get put on dinner duty for their trouble. It’s fine though. I hate writing reports. And Draco will help me with dinner.

He’s reading an old book he found in my bedroom, and keeps smirking to himself. I keep looking over. Remembering last night and the feel of him. The frantic pawing and breathless kissing and the mounting need and, ultimately, the probably near-simultaneous and surprisingly forceful orgasms that bought us a night’s uninterrupted sleep… and brought me a sneaking sense of “what if?”.

He’s not bad on paper. Clever, good-looking, respectable job, good with kids, very good at kissing, adept at a lot of complicated magic, doesn’t treat me differently because I’m me. Nice dick. Arse, too. Looks cute when he’s smiling at a book and doesn’t know I’m watching.

Lord, I need to find something to do. I’m mooning over him like a girl.

I look around, and the recruits who’ve been through already are just sitting around, waiting for something to do. I’m dressed for sparring, and duelling I can do in anything. If someone fights me maybe I can stop thinking about Draco and the fact it’s only 11 hours ‘til bedtime.

Either that or I’m about to learn to multitask.


	10. Think we'll spend the night downstairs

**_Draco_ **

It's not easy to keep my thoughts on work, even with a book to occupy my brain. He's just sitting there, in an armchair he Transfigured out of an old bucket, casually sprawled on the outcome of his considerable magic. He's all warm-looking in his tracksuit, loose and careless and infinitely humpable. And I cannot believe I'm thinking that. It's not even a word.

He gives the just-finished pair of recruits a cheer, rises out of his seat and starts up some sort of hedonistic combat drill with them all that involves flushed cheeks, panted breath, and a gleam of sweat. The occasional grunt of pain is the only testament to the fact he's ten years on from his own rookie days and I almost groan when he pulls off his hoodie — his t-shirt getting tangled and riding up his stomach.

I rode up that fine-looking bastard last night and I can't forget it. His t-shirt and I could start a club, since we're both obviously made to be all over him and apparently a bit clingy. I try and read something mentally engaging and instead I'm diverted by him being taken down by the Spanish-speaking kid giving him a nice bit of Capoeira to the chest. The combined laugh and moan of shame and pain is… distracting. My lap doth protest too much.

And so it goes on. When all the recruits are through, and the improptu homoerotic display is over, Millie starts a debrief and Potter and I move inside for lunch duty. Turns out he can cook, and even if I'd never tell Mother, I eat two bowls of macaroni cheese with bacon and I don't even consider my waistline. To his credit, he's hidden very thinly sliced onion and grated parsnip in it too, plus tiny florets of cauliflower, so it's not all bad. We eat sprawled around the courtyard in the sun.

He looks pleased when he sees me go for seconds, and it makes me contemplate thirds. And also contemplate jumping on him here and pinning him to the flagstones. It's all going a bit wild in my head: the prospect of what I might be allowed to do tonight, and tomorrow night, and the fantasy of what we might agree to continue back home, if the mood takes us. Or if I can convince him. Maybe the Christmas party won't be quite as boring as anticipated. I've never had any sort of sex at work before.

Unless you count this, because the second we're alone in the kitchen the doors slam shut and he seems to take that as a sign. I notice before he kisses me that the curtains have also closed themselves, so when his hands slide lower I don't bother stopping him. We have no viable reason not to just… do what needs to be done.

'Do you think,' he huffs into my neck, lips tickling over my skin, 'that we should do the dishes before we get the door unlocked?' He punctuates his words with a nip at my ear, and I hate that I like it.

Instead of answering, I wave my wand at the sink to set it going and grab him by the hips. We finish before the dishes, him all over my stomach and me clutched tight in his hand. It's a step in the right direction. I'll consider it practice for Christmas if we turn out to only have a few minutes away from the crowds. From his family. Lord, am I terrible for wanting to steal him away from those he loves just to christen my standard issue Ministry furniture? On a holiday?

I feel better when his magic wafts over my belly, leaving my skin clean and cool, and he kisses me again, slowly. It must be more than just getting off if he's doing that, right? More than just appeasing our perverted spectral overseer? 

I'd feel more confident about that if he came anywhere near me for the rest of the day. The recruits are completing some sort of forensic treasure hunt when we venture back outside — keeping a normal, almost heterosexual, distance between us. I feel like the space is too great, and surely it must look forced. Millie's raised eyebrow is almost damning enough that I do something comradely for show but all she actually asks is what took us so long. Then Lisa asks if we've had any more trouble with the ghost and I realise we don't have a plan for that; we only talked about them catching us together in his room. I also realise that those two questions are fundamentally linked to what’s going on between us, and explaining either is giving away information we agreed to keep safe.

'Our Ghostly Madam, er…' Harry laughs, throws me a broad smile, 'seems to be appeased by confessions of a certain type.'

Millie looks frighteningly interested. 'What type? What are you confessing?'

'It would be inappropriate to say,' he says, teasing her. 'Some things don't bear repeating in front of a lady.'

'Tell me, you tiny little git, or I'll put you in a tree and you'll be part of the treasure hunt.'

I back him up. 'How about I tell you the questions we confessed the answers to but not the answers themselves?'

'How about I put you both in a tree?'

Lisa smirks and I feel immediately wary. 'Harry and Malfoy sittin' in a tree…'

'Ooh. I wonder if she'll make you kiss!' Millie's eyebrows disappear into her fringe.

'Let's hope not. Wouldn't want to enrage his delicately vicious little wife,' I say, a tactical move. If Millie and Lisa know the Potters are separated, and think I don’t, they'll assume we're not spending our time getting off with each other. I don't think letting it look like he was cheating would be something they'd believe Harry would do, even if he wasn't _actually_ cheating. Even if they consider me the sort of person who would — Death Eaters are the ultimate home-wreckers, after all.

We lounge for the rest of the afternoon, drinking Potter's beers and reading magazines. Lisa has brought a stack of women's trash mags and they have puzzles and horoscopes and quizzes that pass the time. Apparently, I'm annoyingly adept at crosswords, I'm going to be faced with a new opportunity at work (ha-ha), and if I went back to school now, I'd be a Ravenclaw. My Animagus form would be a fox, my patronus a phoenix, and I should, like, totally, consider a tattoo of a snake. A strange mix of eerily good guesses and utter trash — my Animagus form is actually a fucking ferret (which is why I never registered) and I've managed a hazy Patronus once or twice but it was definitely something bigger than a bird.

Maybe I should ask Professor Potter to help me with it. I'm pretty sure it's one of the ridiculously unnecessary things he teaches. Maybe I'll be able to use the memory of filling his hand with come just a couple of hours ago. I wonder if the happiness needs to be wholesome to work.

Dinner is once again in picnic form but in the ballroom this time, and everyone lounges about on blankets and cushioning charms, or casually Transfigured armchairs if you know the right people. It's burgers, sinfully delicious and far too filling. I wallow in my chair and hope this evening's offering to the supernatural needn't be too strenuous.

Harry seems equally exhausted, at least. We should go to bed at an earlier hour tonight. Especially if we have to perform before we can sleep.

He says as much. 'Shall we go up in half an hour? I, er, need a shower before bed.'

'Of course. I have book to finish and I could do with some quiet if you can manage that.'

'I'm not noisy.'

'You've been spending a lot of time moaning in my ear lately.' I smirk, and he blushes, snapping his mouth shut, retaliation dying on his lips. I'm not wrong.

'Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head,’ he says. ‘It's been a while.'

It should put me off, his being out of practice, but for some reason I find myself wanting to be the one that brings him up to speed. 'Perhaps you should start dating again,' I say. By which, of course, I mean, “perhaps you should start dating me”.

'Have you?' he asks. ‘Starting dating again?’

'No. My wife _died_ , Potter, I have to give it a decent amount of time or people will hate me again.' I certainly don’t want to put Scorpius through any of the shit I went through before, he’s very sensitive and far more intuitive than I’d like him to be at this age.

Potter sighs, looking weary. 'People are going to have an opinion about _me_ either way.'

'All the more reason to be doing exactly what you want,’ I tell him. I learned that the hard way. ‘There's no point caring about what other people think if it won't make a difference to the outcome.'

'It'll make a difference to _who_ hates me,’ he says. ‘I can deal with a bunch of Harpies fans thinking I'm a shit, probably not my own family though.'

'Won't they be upset you're divorcing their brethren anyway? No matter how long you wait to start dating again?'

'No, I don't think our compatibility issues went unnoticed. I'd put money on George having started a betting pool on how long we'd last. Probably at Al’s first birthday party, if I’m being realistic.' He looks sad, and I wonder if he’s ready for anyone new. Even if I’m not actually new to him, per se, just to the contents of his trousers.

'So who are you worried about? What else even matters?' 

'Just because they might be expecting Gin and I to separate, doesn't mean anyone is going to want either of us seeing other people already, bringing them to family dinners and stuff. Especially not my children.'

'They're very young. Would they even understand?' I think of Scorpius and his angelic assumptions that everyone who knows my name is my friend. That Potter might be my boyfriend. Romance is nothing to a three year old.

'They'd understand someone else taking my attention away from them.'

'Why would you let _that_ happen?’ I ask, surprised. Harry always seemed a bit smarter than that. But then, he’s not exactly experienced with relationships, being that he’s only had one real one. ‘Anyone who's inclined to monopolise your time and prevent you from seeing your children shouldn't even be a contender. Better yet, date someone with kids of their own and you can both multitask. Day trips to the zoo or something.'

'I suppose,' he says, looking oddly mournful.

'Do you _want_ to date?' 

He shifts, uncomfortable. ‘People — complete strangers, even — still look at me in this _way_ , like I'm valuable to them. Like they want a piece of me. It's hard to trust people.'

I shrug. 'Pick someone who doesn't like you that much?'

He laughs and looks up from his lap to give me a look. 'Do you realise you're describing yourself?'

'Interesting that's what you got out of it…' I say, hoping I’m not blushing. 'All I said was someone with kids who doesn't like you.'

'Yeah, well, I guess I don't know that many people anymore. You're the only one who fits that description.'

'As far as you know,’ I say. ‘I have it on good authority that Emily in accounts thinks you're a bit of a prick.' This is a lie, I’ve never spoken to Emily, but I’m willing to risk her reputation to take the attention away from me.

'Excellent,’ he says dryly. ‘Does she have children?'

'She very definitely has cats.'

'Not good enough. You'll have to do. On which note: bed?' He stands, looking down at me. A rarity, at his height.

'You might have to carry me,’ I say. ‘I've eaten twice my usual carbs and I feel very fat.’

'Not going to happen.' He turns away and takes his plate to the table set up at the side of the room for dishes. Blue dorm gets put on washing up, and he talks to Millie and Lisa for a moment, presumably excusing himself. In an effort to look like we aren't cohabitating, I simply set my plate on the table, wave and walk out. 

I linger out of sight in the entry hall for a few minutes, checking the time and deciding Scorpius will likely already be in bed and I shouldn't call. Harry appears behind me and pushes at my lower back, urging me towards the hallway and in the direction of our room. His hand is warm and firm and almost possessive. He doesn't say anything 'til we're upstairs.

'Are you going to have a shower?' he asks once we’re behind closed doors.

'I prefer to do so in the morning,' I say. 'I'll settle for a _Scourgify_ tonight since I've not been barrelling around the place or play-fighting children all day.'

'Right. See you in a bit, then.' He whips his shirt off over his head and toes out of his shoes, grabbing pyjama bottoms from under his pillow. I don't bother trying not to look; I think we're past that. I remember the feel of his tan skin under my fingers. Warm, smooth.

I pull out my own pyjamas as I hear him wedging the door open, and I'm in them before he's even turned the water on. The bed is cool and cosy, and my book is nowhere near interesting enough to distract me from him being naked only metres away. I'm not even trying to read when he makes a strange sound and then immediately calls out to me,

'Er, Draco?’ My heart gives a traitorous flutter. ‘Could you come in here? Something's… happened.'

I should've guessed as much. I step into the bathroom to find the rest of his clothes in a messy pile by the vanity. He's in the shower with his back to me, an indistinct shape through the curtain. 

'What's she done this time?' I ask, wondering how inappropriate it would be to poke my head in.

'I'm a bit stuck. I was reaching to turn off the shower, and it kind of… grabbed me.'

Oh… 'And so you're now standing wet and naked with your hands tied to the wall above your head?'

'Yeah.' He sounds apologetic, like all of this is his fault.

'She's not subtle, is she?'

'I don't think that's in her skill set, no.' There's a squeak as he shifts on the wet floor. 'Could you try and undo me?'

Well, if he wants that, I'm going to have to at least look at him. Oh no. I pull the curtain aside… He's gorgeous, stretched out tall with his arse on display. I can't decide whether to stare at that or the taut muscles of his back, shifting under the water. 

'I can try and undo it, but I doubt it'll work,' I say. ‘I can think of something that probably _will_ work, but it's not something we've discussed yet.’

'Right,' he sighs, and I can hear it over the sound of the water. 'Can we try untying first? Whatever we have to do tonight, I'd much rather it was done lying comfortably in bed.'

'Very well, give me a moment,' I say, and take my pyjamas back off, folding them over the towel rail. _Whatever we have to do._ Not the attitude I was hoping for.

The shower is new, plumbed in properly, not just one of those dastardly boxes on the wall that shoots out scorching needles or ice darts or both. It's still over a regular bath though, one old enough that it looks original, with a high wall to climb over and a cold, wet shower curtain to get tangled in. I make it to him in one slightly uncomfortable piece.

'Can you get any closer to the wall?' I ask, very aware of our naked proximity and the consistently perfect curves of his arse. 

He flattens himself against the tiles with a hiss and I reach up above him. There's a narrow length of what looks like white plastic wrapped around his wrist — not tight, but small enough he can't pull his hand back through. I run my finger over it, stroking it like that damn book back in school, just to see what happens.

Turns out, bad things. Bad things happen.

'Did you get it?' he asks a second later, flexing his fingers, testing his range of movement. To add insult to injury, he even sounds surprised.

'No,' I say. 'No, I did not.' 

'But—' he looks up, to where my wrist is now wrapped in a narrow length of white plastic as well. 'Oh.'

'I think she has something in mind,' I say.

'Should we, er, talk about the thing you were thinking might work before?' He looks at the wall.

'Not much point,' I say, right in his ear. 'Since I can't kneel while I'm attached to the shower head.'

'Oh. That.'

'Yes, that.' I wonder how long it's been for him in that regard. Marriage is rarely a goldmine of oral favours.

'Well,' he clears his throat. 'That's a shame.'

'Oh, is it?' I lean closer, breathing on his neck. 'You'd consent to that then?'

'Well… yeah.' He swallows. 'Would be rude not to, right?'

'Not feeling quite so _under duress_ anymore?' I don't know why I feel the need to tease him when we're both shackled to the plumbing; maybe it's just instinctive these days. Maybe it's foreplay.

'Well, actually, _this_ situation isn't without its potential issues. But yeah, I think I trust you. Mostly.' 

'Don't worry, I'm not getting any ideas about taking your posterior virginity.'

'Well. It— Wh—' He makes a weird strangled sort of sound.

'It's fine.' I kiss his wet skin, licking drops of water from his shoulder. 'I know you're not experienced with men, I'm not judging you.'

'Actually, er…'

I lift my head, trying to gauge something, anything, from my inadequate view of his expression. _'Er_ , what? You've had discreet male lovers all throughout your marriage? Your wife has a secret penis? You and Cedric Diggory really did have that bath together?' None of it sounds remotely plausible.

'Well. She did have this… _thing._ And we may have, you know. Used it. A couple of times. On me.'

' _Potter_.'

Is he saying what I think he's saying? After he made a joke about _my_ wife pegging _me_? What will this mean for my chances of actually getting to fuck him, au traditionale?

'I feel like now's a good time to switch to first names, Draco.'

' _Harry_.' I breathe, very purposefully, against his neck. 'What are you suggesting?'

He shifts and I feel his arse cheeks brush against my cock, which apparently knows _exactly_ what he's suggesting. 'I'm not entirely against the idea of… you know. With you.'

'That doesn't sound like explicit consent.'

'It's not, right now,’ he says. 'I mean. Water is no substitute for lubricant.'

Like his very words are magic, there's a jerk from the shower head that I feel in my wrist, and a rattle, and the texture of the water changes. It's softer, thicker… more viscous. 

'She seems to have delivered on the lube front,' I say, screwing up my nose at the weird feeling of it dripping slowly down my face.

'Yeah.' He sighs.

'I'm still not having sex with you for the first time in a shower,' I say. It seems kinder for me to reassure him up front. 'It's dangerous and slippery and not remotely relaxing.'

A muscle in his neck unclenches. 'I guess we have to find something else to do then.' He smirks over his shoulder and the lights dim around us. He tries to turn and our wrists are yanked higher, keeping him facing the wall. I silently thank our Hostess. I have plans for that arse of his.

I step closer, very carefully since the floor is covered in lube. Fortunately, Health & Safety must've been here because there's a series of grippy yellow ducky stickers on the floor of this bath and although I thought them pleasantly whimsical before, now I find them indispensable. Because of the lube. Which is everywhere.

He's warm, his back hard against my chest. His waist is softer, grabbable, and I give him a gentle squeeze before slipping my free hand around to his front. I feel him sigh against me. I'm tempted to go straight down, but I know how to tease a person, so instead I slide my hand up over his chest, thumbing his nipples 'til he flexes his hips and his arse presses against me. 

'Do you really trust me?' I ask him.

'I guess.'

'Good. No penetration, I promise.’ I nuzzle behind his ear and whisper, ‘Though, in all likelihood you'll be begging for it soon enough.'

'Sure.' He huffs a laugh. Is almost covers the tremble in his voice. 'Whatever you say.'

'Exactly. Spread your legs. Now.'

He complies obediently, arranging his feet out to the edge of the ducky stickers and tilting his hips. His arse slides against me and I wonder how to thank a ghost. I wipe the back of his neck free of lube and place a kiss there, pushing my groin into the soft pillows of his arse and twisting from side to side so my semi-hard cock works its way between his cheeks. His hips twitch toward me.

I thrust gently against him, throbbing cock ensconced in the slippery heat of his cheeks, and I feel myself swelling, hardening against him. I return my attention to his neck, biting a little, sucking on the ridge of his shoulder, nipping at the tendons there and making him groan and twitch in my arms. He tastes like fresh pineapple.

There’s a spot where his shoulder meets his neck that makes his knees weak when I hold it between my teeth, and he falls back against me with a gasp. I have to grab him tight to keep him upright while he comes back to himself and it’s a strange sensation. He’s heavy, solid, strong. Astoria was small, fine-boned and delicate, more so when she got sick, and I was painfully careful for so long that it’s become second nature. I realise I don’t have to be like that with Harry. I can shove him against the wall and hump him into oblivion, so I do.

He goes easily, resting his head on his forearms against the wall, and my cock springs upward once it’s no longer trapped under his arse, resettling in the cleft of his cheeks, right where I can see it. It’s somehow more unbelievable like this, with Harry splayed out before me and my own cock laying patiently in wait against his spine. 

I grip myself around the base and paint lazy stripes through the lube, running my shining crown over his cheeks, gliding it over the crevice between them, finding his perineum with the tip, dragging it back, up, up, right between his cheeks so it skims over the tight whorl of muscle and he twitches and swears at the wall.

‘You okay?’ I ask him, and it comes out perilously affectionate.

‘You’re a fucking tease,’ he says, like he’s not remotely surprised.

‘Shall I get on with it?’ I ask, pushing his cheeks apart and repositioning myself so the sensitive ridge of my cock is resting on _his_ most sensitive spot. I lift it away an inch and let it slap back down. It makes a satisfying little _smack_ , so I do it again.

‘Draco,’ he growls. 

‘Yes?’

‘If you could, please, get on with it.’

‘So needy,’ I tease, arranging myself so that I can hit that spot each time I thrust and moving my hand to his hip to hold him in place. 

It’s surprisingly easy, finding a rhythm that works for both of us. It’s nothing like the boys at school and the awkward gyrating and flailing I settled for back then. This is almost refined, considering what it actually is — humping Harry Potter in a shower. He’s responsive, limber, and when he starts to roll his hips in time with mine he keeps perfect rhythm. It’s not long before I feel like maybe I should be giving him some more attention, or I’m going to blow my load all over his back and leave him wanting, still. 

I squeeze his hip so he knows I’m about to move, and he slows, making a gratifyingly gutteral sound in his throat when my fingers slide to find his cock. He’s rock hard and hot and slippery and my own arousal flares as I wrap my hand around his length. Lord, he feels perfect.

I pick up the pace again, barely moving my hand, but his own movements are enough, it seems, if his breath, if the blind strength in his hips, if the sounds he’s making all mean what I think they do. He seems to be enjoying it, a lot, me rubbing my dick hard against him, and he’s panting just as much as I am when there’s a grind and a clatter above us and suddenly our wrists are free. I push the fingers of my free hand into his hair and squeeze. It’s far too late to be stopping, for either of us, if his hand flying back to my hip to pull me harder against him is any sort of indication. It feels good to be touched, and I find more speed in the wild rush of my impending orgasm.

He comes first, a whispered curse and a growl and a new heat in my clenched fist that pushes me ever closer. It’s the fluttering of his muscle against the head of my cock that tips me over though. A softening that makes the rim catch and the pressure is divine and I’m gone, filling the crevice of his arse with come in thick, hot spurts. I’ve never wanted to fuck someone quite so much while already mid-orgasm, but there it is, the power of Harry Potter. I hold him close as I remember how to breathe normally again. The shower turns back to water, clean and hot, and we stand under it, still clinging together, as we come back down.


	11. The pounding and the flashing

**_Harry_ **

Getting redressed and back into bed is either really awkward or really easy, and I can't even tell which anymore. I'm still a bit out of it. And not entirely satisfied. I mean, I am, technically, but skating that close to something and then not doing it is… something. I'm either very, very academically curious or gagging for it. I have no point of reference for this feeling except for my long-past teenage enthusiasm for everything Ginny decided to offer me at the beginning of our relationship. A drip-fed diet of touches, thrilling firsts, and barely insatiable thirst. It's almost like that again, as if I have a second round of firsts. Do people feel like this every time they're with someone new? How exhausting.

Draco is quiet, but lets out a sigh as he lies back in the bed. He looks tired, his hair damp and tousled and his eyes closed. He still looks good, though. I want to wriggle over and spoon him like I would’ve with Gin but I don't know if guys do that. Or even if they do, if we're at a point where we can without it getting weird. Maybe it's weird already, who knows? I stay where I am and arrange myself on my back. Turning on my side toward him seems a bit forward, away from him a bit cold. Who knew sleeping position could feel so loaded with meaning when you're already getting off with someone?

I fall asleep in a haze of endorphins and uncertainty.

It doesn't feel like long before Draco smacks me awake, violently, and I'm transported back to Grimmauld and Gin going into labour and the adrenaline is instant. I throw some light up at the ceiling and summon my glasses from the nightstand. He looks wild, nostrils flared and pupils dilated and panting around the bright red rubber ball that's strapped to his face. Ghost Slag strikes again. It occurs to me it might've been safer to fall asleep spooning.

He grunts at me, pointing at his face and tugs on the strapping to point out that the clasp's somehow stuck. I conjure another smaller, more intense, ball of light, right by his ear, and look over the hardware. There's a simple snap fastener in the leather at his jaw that should be easy to undo, but I tug on it, and it absolutely isn't. It won’t come off. No surprises there.

I contemplate a severing charm, Transfiguring something into a knife, scissors, but it goes against what we decided we'd do when faced with her meddling. I wonder what she might want from us if he's gagged. It rules out kissing, blowjobs, even obtaining consent. Well, okay, it rules out me getting a blowjob. Maybe she wants me to give him one. Maybe I want that too, but not without him agreeing to it and probably not when he can't give me any feedback.

He asks a question with his eyebrows and a sound from his throat, and I shrug. 'It has a normal clasp but it won't come off,' I tell him, and he looks at me like I might be stupid. Of course it won't come off, he's tried already. 'I'm thinking,' I tell him and he doesn't look overly comforted. Bastard.

I sit back for a second and run through options, motives, intent. I have an idea that's a bit out there, but it kind of makes sense, I guess? Worth a try anyway. 

'Do you trust me?' I ask him. 

Probably an ominous question at a time like this. His eyes narrow and he just stares for a second. I try to look innocent even though my idea is not. 

He nods. Very slowly. Understandable. I did once almost kill him accidentally. 

I climb into his lap, straddling his thighs and he tenses. I lean in and kiss his neck. ‘Take it off,' I whisper. Another kiss, a graze of teeth, a wet tongue. 'I want to hear you scream my name.’ 

He makes a slightly strangled sound and there's a soft metallic sound, right before something hits the side of my face. Something leathery.

'How did you know that would work?' he breathes, still panting, tossing the gag aside.

'Auror.' I sit back, still planted in his lap. 'You remember: big red robes, not very clever?' 

He gives me a withering look but doesn't try and dislodge me. 'Well done, you're just as perverse as our Madam.'

'I'm not. I don't know what she wants next.'

'I can guess what she wanted a second ago,’ he says and gives me a look like I’ve cheated him. ‘But you've upped the ante, you tit. So what're you thinking that's going to make me scream your name?'

I lean next to his ear again and breathe, 'I'm going to fill out some paperwork incorrectly and send it to you out of sequence.'

'I don't think that's what she was planning.' His hands come to rest on my hips and I have to wonder what _he's_ planning.

'What do you think she wanted?' I kiss his neck again. He tastes good.

'Seems obvious,' he says, 'considering your mouth was available for use and mine was not.'

' _Available for use_?' I sit back and give him a look.

He slides his hand round to the front of my pyjamas and pops the top button. 'I can explain further if you want? You Auror-types seem to like practical demonstrations.'

'Do we need to? If the gag is gone?'

'Would you prefer to _not_ get a blowjob? Are you sure you're—'

'Shut up. Yes, I'm sure I'm bi, stop being an arse. I just — it seems frivolous if we're already free.'

'You're acting like you don't really enjoy orgasms, which goes against my impression from the last couple of days,' he says, and slips his hand into my pyjama bottoms. 'I thought we were doing rather well.'

I have to close my eyes as he wraps one hand around me, gently tugging, the other hand sliding under my shirt and gripping my hip again. He pushes up slightly from his seated position, holding me tight against his lap. _Ngghh._

'I didn't expect we'd do anything we didn't have to,' I admit, surprised at how forward he's being and wondering how unadventurous my brain must be to have not considered just… _doing everything_ I was curious about, especially when we'd agreed we weren't going to hold ourselves responsible for any of it.

'Who says we _don't_ have to? It's two in the morning.' He nuzzles at my throat and I feel myself swell in his hand. 'She only let us sleep for five hours. I want another five.'

'She keeps moving the goalposts, who's to say she'll give us five more hours anyway?' I point out. 'What's to stop her from keeping the doors locked completely, and just watching us try and find something we haven't done?'

'I think letting me suck your dick would put off those sorts of questions for the morning, at least.'

'I don't want you to feel obliged to do anyth—'

'Potter.’ He nips at my jaw. ‘We talked about this. I gave my blanket consent. And I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to. Even though you did cheat me out of getting a blowjob myself.' He gives me a wry smile and it all seems so… easy. 

'It would've been terrible anyway,' I say. 'I've never done it before.'

He gives my cock another slow tug and I manage, just, to not make a stupid face at how good it feels. 'I'm okay with you finding out you have a natural talent for that too.' 

'No pressure.'

He _tsks_. His smile is indecent. 'Just the right amount of pressure.' 

He folds his knees up, pushing me out of his lap so I'm standing up on my knees. My dick is about level with his mouth. He gives it an appraising look and it twitches under his gaze. Attention-seeking bastard of an appendage.

'You're terrible,' I say, but then he closes his mouth over the tip and I change my mind. 'Okay, okay, you're brilliant. My bad.' I feel him smirk and he pulls back a touch before sliding down again, his pace excruciatingly slow. 'Jesus H. Christ.'

'Who?' He pulls off and looks up at me, his eyes going wide, curious, then suddenly panic-stricken and I have half a second to worry that I have some sort of visible dick tumour before he says, 'What the fuck is that?' at the space over my shoulder and I realise I might have bigger things to worry about.

I look up and there's a pink powder falling from the light fitting. I have enough time to be worried about how stable this house is, and if we're having an earthquake, before the ceiling fan turns on by itself and it the pink cloud descends on us in a rush. I feel it tickle my nose as I inhale it. He coughs. My gut sinks with dread.

Somehow Draco has the presence of mind to pull my t-shirt over my dick with his free hand, so if this is some sort of cursed death dust, at least I'll die with a working penis. Oddly, he doesn't let go of me though. 

The cloud of pink settles, coating our clothes and turning his hair rosy. It'd be nice if it wasn't so bloody scary. 'Er. What do you think that was?' I ask him.

'I don't know, but I think we can probably assume it's some sort of airborne particle aphrodisiac. Possibly one used as a sexual aid.'

'A sexual aid?' That doesn’t sound too bad, until I remember the little white flowers and their path of dickstruction. 'You have experience with them?'

'Not a lot, but my dick is getting surprisingly hard considering no one is paying it much attention. I imagine you'd be feeling the same if you weren't already noticeably aroused.'

'Right.' I shift a little, his hand still clamped around me. It feels a little weird when I move my hips. In a place that doesn't usually feel weird. 'Er, do you think that's all it does?'

'Is that not enough? What else is it going to do?'

'I don't know, my arse feels weird.'

He reaches his free hand around and grabs one cheek, giving it a hearty squeeze and the weirdness intensifies. Not really in a bad way, either. In a sort of quite good but also sort of worrying way. A way that forces my breath out of me and makes me screw my face up.

'Are you okay?' he asks, taking both hands off me and leaning back like I'm contagious. 'Your arse feels fine to me.'

'Is there a chance there's something in that powder that makes… certain parts more sensitive?'

'I don't know, how sensitive are your certain parts?' He cocks his head to the side. 'Shall we check?' His hand slides back up my thigh.

'I don't know if that'll help, actually.'

'Might help us figure out what she's proposing?'

'I'm getting an idea what that might be,' I say. 'We, er… may have teased her a bit with what we did in the shower. She may feel she's been cheated out of something… entertaining.'

'Oh.' His hand moves slowly back 'til it's resting on my buttock, and he looks up at me. 'May I?'

'Since you asked nicely. Be gentle.'

He moves slowly, carefully, tucking his hand into the back of my pyjamas and skimming down 'til his fingertips are right under my arse cheek and then he, I dunno, clenches, I guess. Tugs on my flesh, pulls one buttock away from the other, right at the crux of my thighs so the sensation goes deep. It's maddening and amazing and fills me with the most basic sort of need. My hips flex, thrusting toward him, cock firm and proud now, bobbing in his face. 

'Do you trust me?' he asks, and Conjures lube in his hand before I have a chance to answer. 

'I guess,' I say. 'I assume you're a fan of proper cleaning spells.'

'Of course,' he says, and he wandlessly washes his magic over me 'til I feel empty and fresh and like I'm on the precipice of something terribly meaningful.

I close my eyes. 

He pulls my pyjamas down around my thighs and wraps both arms around me, my dick poking at his jaw. I feel his hands behind me, drawing my cheeks apart, and I wait for the thrill of his fingers. He gasps a little, just as I do, just as he hones in on the spot.

'For goodness sake, Potter, you're practically gaping,' he says, and lets the tip of one finger dip in. 

I feel no resistance, or tightness, or anything other than the overwhelming need for more. I push back on his hand 'til I feel his finger slide inside me. It's far easier and feels way better than anything Gin and I did back there. It feels really, really good. 

'More,' I say. 

He groans softly against my hip, sliding another finger in next to the first. 'This seems like a good time to check you're up for some truly mind-blowing sex, Potter. Because if you're teasing me, I might actually cry.'

'Yeah, cool,' I say, flexing back against his hand.

'Can you be a bit more explicit?'

'Yes to sex, please. Definitely yes.' I pull off a bit and slide back again. 'More?'

'You slag,' he says, and it sounds almost affectionate. 

He slides another finger in and the urgency abates slightly, the _need_. But then his fingers twist inside me and I have to hold onto his shoulders to stop myself from lurching down onto his hand.

'Are you ready?' I ask, and instead of an answer he banishes our clothes and casts another wandless _Lubrio_ , slathering his dick in it with his unoccupied hand.

'Are you?' he asks, slowly drawing his fingers out of me and sliding them back in again.

'Get on with it,' I beg, the infernal pink cloud of whatever-it-is making me both cranky and needy and, oddly, full of affection. 

He huffs a laugh that I feel on my dick where it's nuzzling against his cheek, and he withdraws his fingers, letting them catch on the rim. I let my knees slide apart, sinking down toward his lap and my waiting salvation. This pink stuff could be weaponised. Waft it over suspects and promise them some alone time with a dildo if they confess. We’d have had Voldemort on his knees in minutes, begging for the sword of Gryffindor.

That said, maybe it's strong enough people would confess whether it was true or not. It's got me wanting to be enthusiastically fucked by my former nemesis, after all. Of course, if it’s going to be in keeping with our go in the shower, enthusiastic fucking may include a marathon of edging and some surprisingly tender moments. I’m not sure I’m in the mood for that. Well, definitely not the edging anyway. Can I say to him how exactly I want it without sounding like an animal? I hope he’d know it’s probably just the pink cloud talking.

‘Draco?’

‘Yes?’ He looks up at me. ‘Are you still okay?’

‘Fine, just…’ I can’t help grinning at my own juvenile inability to articulate my needs. Gin would roll her eyes at me — hard. ‘Could we do it a bit differently than we did in the shower?’

‘I’m looking forward to not being completely covered in lube if that’s what you mean?’

‘No. Well, yes, that too, but more… Can we…?’ I struggle for the right words.

‘You want to take it slow?’ he guesses.

‘No. No, definitely not. Quite the opposite. But I don’t really know how to ask for what I’m thinking of.’ I stare hard at the ceiling for a second, begging it for clarity or bravery or something. ‘Sorry. I’m making this awkward.’

‘What weird shit are you about to ask me for? I’m not going to let you piss on me.’

‘Ew, nothing weird, just…’ I look at him, dishevelled, but still with that air of careful perfection.

‘What?’

‘Could you… maybe, be a little rough with me?’

He raises a manicured eyebrow. ‘Define rough.’

‘I don’t know. I liked it when you pinned me to the door. And again in the shower. I like that it feels different with you than with Gin.’ I quirk a wry smile at the idiotic fact I just mentioned my ex-wife while naked with another man. Hopefully he’ll see the compliment at least. ‘You’re bigger than her, and stronger, and I like that we’re kinda of equal, physically. I don’t have to worry about hurting you or anything.’

‘So you want me to fuck you like your wife couldn’t?’

‘Yeah, that sounds about right.’

‘God you’re weird. Get off me and lie on the bed.’

I think it might all be over as he shoves me off him, but then he’s getting up and moving over me, pushing my knees apart as he slides between them. His dick bobs merrily in front of him and I remember we have something serious to deal with.

‘I suppose you want to do this on your back?’ he asks.

I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest, but it seems so impersonal any other way. ‘Is that okay? I can turn over if it’s too much.’

‘No.’ he sighs. ‘This is fine.’

‘Seriously, I don’t mi—’ 

‘Shut up and pass me a pillow.’

He taps at my arse ‘til I lift my hips, and he jams the pillow under my lower back, dragging me down the bed a bit so that I’m spread out with him kneeling close between my thighs. It’s quite confronting. I’m about to have sex with someone other than Gin for the first time ever, and it’s _him_. And we’re doing it on purpose. Not exactly voluntarily, in a way, but I’m very much in favour of it and he seems quite comfortable where he is. 

He curls forward, and I wonder what he’s doing 'til his tongue comes out and he’s licking a fat stripe up my shaft and I have to close my eyes. His fingers slip inside me again as he sucks me into his mouth. It feels better than it should, which I assume is because of the pink stuff and not because of anything else, like my ex-wife not being as good at it as I always thought.

I feel his other hand nudge against my thigh and notice the slight shake in the bed that means he must be stroking himself at the same time as he’s sucking me off. It’s odd, erotic and gratifying but also, I feel left out; like I want to touch him as well, but I’m laid out like a boneless chicken. 

‘Hey,’ I say, and he looks up at me with my cock still jammed in his mouth, and he’s so fucking pretty I could cry. ‘Come here.’

He lets my cock slide out and leaves a kiss on the tip before moving over me and kissing my mouth instead. I get lost in his attention, forgetting what I wanted ‘til his tongue touches mine, and I remember wanting his dick in my mouth. I slip a hand off his shoulder, down his side, and nudge at his stomach so he’ll lift up so I can get a hand in there.

He looks down, between us, and then back up at me. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Can I, you know…’ I consider pushing my tongue into my cheek to mimic a blow job but stop myself just in time. ‘Suck you? Before we do it and I can’t?’

‘What?’

‘Can I suck your dick?’ I ask, and it’s the most awkward sentence ever to make it out of my mouth. ‘Please.’

‘No.’ He bats my hand away and rises up off me to sit back on his heels. I feel his fingers again, circling, spreading fresh lube. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yeah, but, why can’t I?’

‘Shut up,’ is all he says as he looks down. I feel the blunt pressure of his dick and the stretch of skin and an intense feeling of fullness, like I might burst into a cloud of very wet, happy glitter or something. There’s no pain, though. No discomfort or awkwardness or fear. Instead it feels weirdly _right_ under this pink haze of feral need or whatever it is. It’s _satisfying_. I’m so doomed. It’ll be a thousand times harder to go back home to nothing, after this, if it turns out to be really, really good…

And it is. Of course.

He stays kneeling for a while, easing himself in and out, rubbing soothing hands up and down my thighs. At some point, he shifts and hooks one of my ankles over his shoulder, pushing in deeper and I see his eyelids flutter shut. He dips his head, and I can’t take my eyes off him.

When it already feels too good to be real, he pulls my other ankle up and over and leans forward, an arm either side of my waist. When he snaps his hips I make the most embarrassing sound I’ve ever heard, and I don’t even care; I just want him to do it again. He seems not to notice, just keeps pounding at me, hard and relentless and oddly comforting. I go limp in his arms and let everything wash over me. When he sits back and flips me over, I sink into the bed and let him do whatever he wants. His hands are in my hair, pulling at it, his teeth making patterns along my shoulders. I feel drunk with lust. And still no closer to coming than I was before. I feel like I might _never_ come, like I’ll plateau forever, and I hope that’s not what this pink stuff does. It’d be unspeakably cruel.

He mentions it, eventually.

‘Harry,’ he pants in my ear, his hips slow, but his drive still deep. ‘This is the weirdest sexual aid I’ve even _heard_ of. It’s a thousand times weirder than the White Holeander the other day.’

‘Do you feel like you might never come?’ I ask him.

‘Something like that,’ he says and rolls off me, his dick still hard and straight, sticking up from his body like a beacon. He looks over at me. ‘Do you want a go?’

‘Topping you?’

‘If you don’t mind? I’m knackered but still ridiculously aroused. Hopefully it won’t last much longer because there’s no way I can sleep like this.’ He flourishes a hand at his erection, pink and shiny and proud. It’s thrilling just to be allowed to stare at it.

‘Are you, like, ready?’

‘I think you got the lion’s share of it when you looked up, but I should be okay with bit of extra prep.’ He snakes his hand down to check, and I flick my gaze between his expression and the arm that’s disappearing between his legs. 

A new shiver of want runs through me, and I quickly Conjure some lube in my palm. When I move down the bed, he spreads his legs for me, and I get to see his fingers moving. I itch to touch him and instead I touch myself, slicking my neglected cock and trying not to get any more excited as I watch him play with himself. I mimic his earlier movements, shoving the same pillow under him as he drapes one leg over my shoulder. I shuffle closer, lining myself up.

When I look to see what his eyes are saying, he’s staring at me with an expression on his face so trusting I have to look away. I push in. It’s not a new sensation, physically, but the soft growl and the flex of his hips makes all the difference. I sink into him with a mix of bliss and utter disbelief for the entire situation.

Draco has always seemed to bow to no-one, and the image of him under me, gasping and muttering lord-knows-what, is… new. I never expected that he'd be one to bottom, not outside of a serious relationship, and certainly not for me. That said, he does hate to be left out of anything someone else is getting, so maybe switching makes the most sense, looking at the big picture.

I make sure to enjoy every minute of having him under me, every thrust and slide and breathy groan of pleasure. I hug his legs against my chest and drill him like he’s invincible, like I could never go too hard, never get a wrong angle or say the wrong thing.

‘Harry,’ he breathes after a while, ‘I think it’s wearing off.’

‘Yeah,’ I agree. I can feel the shiver building. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of every trembling muscle, every joint, every nerve of every piece of skin touching his. His legs, still settled against my shoulders, quiver with need.

I don’t stop.

He wraps his fist around his cock, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. I feel like all of that should be mine, my job, and I bat his hand away, Conjuring an obscene amount of lube directly onto his belly and smothering him, my mouth on his. I feel the plumpness of his bottom lip as his teeth release it and immediately suck it into my mouth. I roll my hips, and he whimpers. He’s folded in half, practically, I have all of him, and I can’t hold back. 

It’s a long, slippery ride down, the haze lifting, my body tired but strung too tight to stop. He’s whispering senselessly against my lips, punctuating curses with deep, reaching kisses, and I’m clamped around him, my hands gripping his shoulders, my hips working on their own. I feel my orgasm coming from a mile off, my balls drawing tighter and tighter, breathing getting more or less impossible and an unearthly need to just keep going. I feel like I’ll explode, and then he breathes my name against my lips, so sweetly, and something in me breaks, and I come with a crash and a sob against his mouth. He convulses as I pump the last drop out of myself, and I slide over his slick belly, again and again, til I feel him still, gasping in my ear.

We lie like that for a long time, waiting for our breathing to return to normal, for the slow release of everything we’re holding on to. The stretching out of limbs. The cracks and groans and threatening cramps. It’s very real, what we’ve done, the line we’ve crossed. Or at least the line I’ve crossed is. Who knows what this means to him? Regardless, it's exhausting in seven different ways, and we, or at least I, fall asleep as soon as the last _Scourgify_ is done and the lights are out. I dream of falling in a vacuum, dark and starry with little white flowers and clouds of pink-tinged cosmic dust.

We get our full five hours, six almost, even after the hour and a bit we spent awake and… occupied. I can't really deal with the memory of it when I wake up. My body aches and refuses to let me forget. Draco is still sleeping, so I slip out of bed and leave him there. I spend the twenty minutes it takes me to make a coffee and drink it reliving my most embarrassingly wanton displays of lust and simultaneously forgiving him for his.

The thing is, I don't know how to feel about it all. He's not my wife or my boyfriend, he's not some random I've met in a club and brought home for something fun and meaningless. Nothing _we_ could do will ever be meaningless — you don't spend your formative years obsessively loathing someone, only to find sympathy for them under the gaze of certain death, then have to work adjacent to them and slowly start to respect them, only to then consider them inconsequential. We'll never be nothing, but this all seems to have turned that particular fact up to eleven and now what? I used to hate him, then I didn’t and now I sleep with him? Is this just another phase of our existence? The bit where we used each other for sex in exchange for sleep and freedom? And is it temporary?

Or were all those little tender moments — the ones that made him feel like more than just a colleague I was cursed to lust for, or a convenient fuck — were they a sign of something else? Might we, after all this, actually be kind of suited to each other? It's a ridiculous thought. Ron would have a fit laughing.

I go back to our room and he's up and in the shower. I stand over his overnight bag, which he's obviously brought up from the pink room at some stage after the conversation about how we might lie to Millicent. It's neatly packed but not anally so. It smells nice: fresh and leathery. It's clearly expensive, but not new; he's taken care of it over the years. Can I imagine it at Grimmauld Place, resting casually on the chair under the window? Can I imagine him in my shower, Gin's daisy-shaped non-slip thingies still firmly stuck to the bottom of the tub and a shower caddy we bought together as newly-weds still holding the kids’ no-more-tears shampoo? Can I put him in my life like that and not have the fallout that's made Gin and I so afraid of moving on?

Maybe she and I could both move out of the Master Bedroom, give it to the boys, and I'll take one of the other bedrooms along the hall. Gin and the baby could have the ground floor guest rooms. We could make it work. Well, with some robust Silencing Charms if last night is any indication. He's not quiet. Not that I was either. Lord, why would Ginny want to live with us if we're going to be all sickeningly sappy and making loud sex noises?

Maybe we could move into his place— Wait. 

What? Why am I thinking this?

I look around the room, expecting to see something out of order — a branch of erection flowers, a cloud of sex, anything that might explain my sudden fantasies about cohabitation with a guy I'm not even dating, but there's nothing. It's almost creepier this way. Sneakier.

I'm wondering if the steam coming under the door from the bathroom is even steam at all, when Draco emerges and it wafts into the room all at once. He’s both alive and erection-free so I guess it is.

'What's going on?' he asks, frowning at my expression.

'Nothing. I thought I felt weird.'

'Why are you standing by my bag?'

'I don't know. That's what’s weird.'

'Well, go shower before the kids get up and empty the hot water tank. Magic can only do so much to keep it warm.'

'Yeah. Okay.'

He's still frowning slightly as I grab some clothes and slip into the steamy ensuite, but he's at least going through the motions of getting dressed, so he can't be that cross.

He's gone when I get out, bed made and bag zipped shut. I brush my teeth, just in case I need to kiss him, and head along to the Operations Room. Mill and Lisa are in there with the teapot, checking things off a list. I take a seat and pour myself a cup.

'We've got a few more things to test them on before we go home tomorrow,' Lisa says. 'Your friend is downstairs setting up something now for Mirrors, Mirages, and Spectres.'

'Where did he find mirrors?'

'You're not going to fight me on the fact he's your friend, then?' She smirks.

'We're getting on okay,' I say, not rising at all. I know her.

'I see that.'

'So do I,' Millicent says without looking up from her parchment.

'Guess it's good you're not blind.' I keep my voice steady, neutral. Unbothered. 'Since you have tests to grade.'

'I'd give you two an Exceeds Expectations, given the reluctance he showed in coming here,' Mill says. 'And your obvious dismay that it was him saving you from your cock problems.'

'He didn't want to stay even when he did get here, either,' Lisa points out. 'Amazing how that's turned around.' She looks directly at me as I sip my tea.

'What are you getting at?' I ask.

Mill lets out a sigh, eyes still fixed on her lists. ‘You two are like a cute old married couple. It’s nauseating.'

Lisa makes an agreeable sound. 'Yep. And I think you'd be fucking adorable together, planting your vegetable garden and yelling at cats. He’s a bit cleverer than you but I'm sure you won't mind. You're still better at Quidditch.'

'Right. Well.' I stand up. 'Guess you guys might as well arrange the wedding then, since it's decided. I'll go see what my darling is up to, shall I?' I drain my tea.

I'm half expecting to turn around and find him standing in the doorway, wondering why I'm calling him darling, but I find him in the ballroom instead. He's set up something sinister-looking in the centre of the room, curtains all drawn and the double doors into the solarium shut tight. Only a single chandelier sparkles from the ceiling, its dim light dancing on the hundred different surfaces — mirrors, various metal objects, polished glass in portrait frames. 

'This looks spooky,' I say from the door. I'm not sure how safe it is to be wandering into something that’s definitely a bit cursed. Plus, I don't know exactly where he is — mirrors being what they are.

'It's meant to,' he says from somewhere over to my right. 'As much they enjoy their little frolics outside jumping over things and hunting for clues, I think something more true to life might be good for them. Show them what the field is like. In the relative safety of a haunted house.'

'You should come and work with us. For real.'

'I have a job, Potter.'

'Harry.' I feel like after last night, we're definitely on a first name basis.

'We're both fully clothed and in public,' he points out from wherever he is. 'I think "Potter" will raise less suspicion.'

'Bit late for that. The girls were joking about us being like an old married couple a second ago.'

He lets out an _ughh_ and appears from behind a tall mirror. 'What did you say to them?'

'I didn't put my foot in it, if that's what you're asking. They brought it up out of nowhere,' I say, purposely not rising to his insinuation. He frowns but he lets me continue, 'So, I said that we really appreciated them offering to plan the wedding.'

He snorts. 'Fair enough. If you lose your composure under Millicent's needling she'll read into it every time.'

'Yes, I have met her,' I remind him. 'And worked with her. For several years now.'

'Yes, but you're not very observant, Harry.'

'I thought you were sticking to "Potter"?'

'You just explained why I shouldn’t bother.'

'I did.'

'You’re as observant as a tree. Did you notice we're also not locked in or chained to anything?' He strides toward me.

'I guess.'

I think he's going to kiss me once he gets close, and maybe he thinks so to; I see his eyes flick to my mouth and away again.

'I think we should be careful about being anywhere alone during the day,' he says instead, before correcting himself. ' _Alone together_. Last night will have set a certain standard and I don't think we'll be able to repeat it here.' He wafts his hand at the large room.

I think about that for a second. 'Will we be repeating it anywhere?'

'We have a whole other night here, I doubt she'll suddenly leave us alone now.' He shrugs. 

'Oh.'

'Is that okay?' He's smirking at me like I've been a bit stupid again.

'Yeah.' I look away from his nice hair and his mischief and his mouth. 'I'll just have to hope I don't get used to it before I go home to a cold bed and an antisocial cat.'

'And your pregnant wife.'

'Ex-wife.'

'An important distinction.'

'It is if I'm sleeping with you.' 

He makes a strange little sound, almost like a laugh, but sad. 'Will that make any sort of a difference when you get back home?'

I feel the conversation shift in a matter of heartbeats.

'I'm going to stay separated from her, baby or not,' I say. 'We don't work as a couple anymore. Doesn't mean we can't both be parents.'

'Makes for strange living arrangements.'

It's weird enough that he's mentioning Ginny, and me, and the baby, but bringing up living arrangements is all too similar to the thoughts that overcame me only a half-hour ago.

'Are you feeling okay?' I ask him. He looks a little flushed, but he's been working at arranging the most unsettling confidence course in the world, so that's not surprising.

He sighs at me. 'I'm fine, Potter. Go get your recruits. Let's see if I can make any of them cry.' He turns away, sweeping his wand at the pile of shiny reflective junk so that half of it leaps up to hover in the air. It's startling and impressive and I see what he means about making the kids cry. It's twice as creepy as before. Carla's going to have a meltdown, at least. Lafawnda will probably not notice it's scary and spend the whole exercise fixing her hair. 

I turn on my heel and head outside, where Lisa's sent them to do warm-ups. Let's hope they're all feeling mentally stable. At least more than I am.


	12. We don't care about the disturbances

**_Draco_ **

I can't tell who's the bigger idiot, him or me. At any other point in our lives, I'd have assured anyone it was him. Now, I'm thinking things I probably shouldn't be, and he's asking me if I'm _feeling okay_. Like it's weird for me to take an interest in his personal life but not to fuck him into the mattress last night.

I shouldn't have done it. Not that our Madam gave us much of a choice, and I wouldn't go so far as to say I'd have been capable of passing him up, but honestly… I'm an idiot. A glutton for punishment. A sad, pathetic, moon-eyed teenager, too busy pining to realize I'm a fucking grown-up and this should not be happening. I'm quite sure this isn't what Asti had in mind when she told me I shouldn't wait too long to start dating again.

This isn't even dating. It's sex, and it's seemingly meaningless to him. So be it. 

That said, he _is_ an idiot of the highest order. It took him five and a half years to realise his wife was completely in love with him. What if he just doesn't _know_ he likes me because Granger isn't here to tell him? What if it isn’t meaningless but he hasn’t realised?

I could talk to him but he'd still be an idiot. Can I prompt an epiphany? And can I trigger it somehow before we all go home? The last thing I need is an emotional hangover from what was originally meant to just be harmless messing around. More needless pining would be annoying and entirely illogical. Especially when I can't ever really get away from him at work and our kids are going to end up at all the same schools in a couple of years. 

Lord, he's irritating. Maybe putting my self-respect on the line and forcing him to accept or reject me will make things easier. I could find a way to despise him if he was a twat about it.

I levitate a lounge chair from the solarium into the corner of the ballroom, Disillusion myself, and curl up to wait. I want to watch the recruits go through the course — I'm rather proud of it — it'll be interesting to see what happens. Maybe there are improvements I could make. Besides, despite the general confusion surrounding he and I right now, it's still risky to be alone for too long, and it's probably better for me to be here. It’s not like we won’t be thoroughly chaperoned.

Harry comes in shortly after I’m settled with 18 human ducklings in tow, alpha-type males pretending to not be nervous and the rest looking appropriately wary. My money's on the smaller girl with the short hair; she seems practical, and life at her diminutive size will have made her scrappy and better at using her magic in a more physical way. Maybe I should poach her to be a Curse-Breaker. Our training is a bit more refined, and I haven't had an apprentice in a few months. Humanoid Resources will be on to me about it soon anyway. I wonder how Harry would take it if I stole one of his students?

I try and make myself wonder why I care. 

Except, of course, I know exactly why I care and merely _wish_ I didn't. Even if I did dream about him last night, about waking up in a grand Victorian bedroom in the summer, giant bed with crisp white sheets and sun streaming in the window onto the hardwood floors. Fucking _birds_ were singing. It was so domestic I couldn't even see how a night of very, very mildly kinky sex might've inspired it.

Seeing him now, it makes a bit more sense, and maybe I'm being a bit dense too. It's easy, when we're alone, to forget that he's good at this teaching thing. And that he's pretty powerful, magically. That he has other admirable qualities outside of the obvious physical ones and his weirdly appealling innocence. That he's intuitive with people, and knows what to do to get the best out of them. That he can create an atmosphere of trust and still be able to challenge every one of his students. And he's doing it in a tracksuit, no less. His competence is making me stupid.

I watch from the corner for a couple of hours, the brave and the skittish, the successes and the messes. Each time, he debriefs them, patches up their spirit and puts them back through. By lunch time, he's beaming and the recruits are performing well and I think I might be a little bit in love with him.


	13. The screaming, the music

**_Harry_ **

He's sat in the corner of the ballroom all morning, watching us. I feel like maybe he's watching me specifically, but that would mean something, and I'm pretty sure all this doesn't mean anything at all. To me, sure, it’s kind of a big deal. And he's being really decent about it. Which doesn't help because it's not making those less-than-helpful warm feelings keep from multiplying under his gaze. Even when he's Disillusioned. 

I just can’t help wondering if he regrets last night. Even if he did enjoy it. Maybe he’s been quiet this morning because he’s trying to think of a way to pretend it never happened. I don’t want him to feel like he owes me anything, he doesn’t. But at the same time… if he wants something more… I might be okay with it. Maybe. Really? No. It’s too weird. The whole thing — the forced rooming, being trapped places ‘til we did stuff, the aphrodisiacs — it’s a shitty way to start a relationship with someone. I’d spend my whole life second guessing, paranoid we’d been tricked into feeling things and none of it was real.

It’s a pointless thing to think about now anyway, since we’re still in the house, and the house can’t be trusted. Maybe I’ll see how I feel when I get home. I can owl him a ball gag or something and see what he does. 

I focus on the task at hand. At least I know my job is real. The shrieks and bangs and enthusiastic high-fives aren’t imagined. Their camaraderie and the care they show each other is genuine. They’re good kids.

Once they’re all through the course and are off freshening themselves up and having a much-deserved break, there's a shiver of air in the corner. Draco's dragged out one of the chairs from the sunroom and curled himself up in it. I find it annoyingly cute that he's a grown-up and still does that, makes himself small and parks himself somewhere comfortable. Eighth Year was an emotional shitstorm for all of us who came back and he was often found concertinaed into a giant purple chair by the fire. Hermione had decided that routine, and constant reading, were part of his coping mechanisms. It seems significant to recognise that now, to see that he’s still using them to manage. I guess maybe I know him better than I've allowed myself to admit.

There's a sort of comfort in convincing yourself that the people who have the most effect on us are the farthest away from us, that we can't relate to them if we hold them away, that they can’t get to us. I wonder if I’ve done that to him like I did with Snape all those years ago. I never cared to think that my much-despised professor might’ve known my parents, their friends, all my other teachers. Might have been friends with them. I always put him in a different category, somewhere else, not wanting to imagine him talking to my mother, or why Dumbledore trusted him. Not thinking about why my dad had teased him, because accepting that Snape wasn't some evil "other" meant accepting that my father was flawed and normal and not the hero I needed. Have I held Draco away from me in the hope that I'd never have to compare the two of us? Maybe subconsciously I might have known we weren't that different. In hindsight, we certainly had a lot in common in a lot of ways I never examined.

Anyway. He's here now and the distance between us is gone and it's weird. Or it isn't. I still can't tell. Maybe the fact that it isn't weird is what is weird. Maybe it's just logical that we should get on now. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised that he's sat and watched me teach all morning, or that I like it. It all just seems so fast.

'Not bad,' he says, and I wish he was talking about me and not just commenting on the class.

'They did really well, thanks for setting it up.'

'Anything to serve the future generations of the DMLE. It's always nice to be on the right side of the law.'

'You’ve been on the right side for a while now,' I say and throw a Cushioning Charm at the floor in front of his chair before dropping myself onto it. It's still hard and uncomfortable because I suck at Cushioning Charms, but it's better than being upright. 

He makes a thoughtful sound. 'I don't know, I think for a long while I was merely no longer on the _wrong_ side. Curse-Breaking is a little self-serving after all. There's treasure and status and adrenaline, which are all quite good distractions from the depression that comes from knowing you once _were_ on the wrong side.'

'There's also dragons.'

'True. But liking them didn't make me a better person.'

'But something did?' I don't know if this is too personal a question, or one I could only ask in the pantry, but I look up at him for a response anyway. Fuck, maybe if we practice talking about real things I'll be able to tell him I think he's fit and I'm not averse to sleeping with him again after we go home. He might even be into it.

When he answers, he smiles, but there's a wry sort of sigh alongside, that makes me wonder what he's going to credit with his redemption. 'Scorpius deserved to be adored and not reviled.'

That… actually makes sense. I remember getting my shit together a lot faster all of a sudden, once Gin found out she was pregnant. Well, maybe when she started to show, or when I first felt a tiny James kick at my hand through her belly. When it sunk in I was going to be a father to an actual human person.

I'd finally talked the the Healers about therapy, I'd had Grimmauld professionally cleaned after years of saying it was fine, I'd even bought a few button-down shirts from Marks & Spencer instead of Primark, thinking I had to try and look like a proper adult who had something resembling self respect.

Basically, I get what it means to do things you never thought you deserved because you suddenly have to do things that aren't just for yourself. And that everything you do for yourself now reflects on this other person who comes to you completely innocent and unspoiled. I know what it is to not want to fuck that up. Yet another thing we have in common.

Seeing him curled up again in his soft, expensive-looking clothes makes me wonder if I noticed him a while ago but didn't quite have all my marbles to notice that I'd noticed. I wasn't exactly emotionally present for a lot of Eighth Year. And he's never really felt like a proper whole person to me before this week. Maybe that’s why it feels so quick. We never had the chance to be friends first, I never had a chance to realise I found him attractive, organically, without prompting. I never scanned the halls for him at work, looked for him in the break room. I never got a chance to wonder what it would be like to be close to him before I just… was. Or rather, I had the chance, and it never occurred to me to take it. 

'I don't think anyone reviled you,' I say. 'They just thought you were a dick.'

He laughs. 'Thank you, that's a comfort. Honestly, I think Scorpius can probably cope with me being a dick. He'll probably agree with you all once he's a teenager anyway.'

'I don't think you're a dick.'

'Oh, really?' He almost sounds like his old self, without the gloom I saw around him this morning. 

'You're—' I fail to find words that mean what I'm feeling. 'Fine.'

'Such effusive praise will no doubt go to my head, Harry. Do be careful.'

My name still sounds bizarre from his mouth, even with his typical edge of sarcasm. I like it, I think. More than is safe for sitting in a public space in light trousers. Even if there is a reflective pile of random household objects between us and the door. 

'Okay, you're slightly better than fine.'

'How much better?' he asks, appraising me from his chair. The mood has shifted again, it keeps doing that when we're alone. Maybe it's habit, now, like we've been conditioned for arousal when we're by ourselves. Which reminds me we shouldn’t _be_ by ourselves.

'Reasonably better.'

His eyes flick toward the door before they come back to me. 'Are you going to remember me as being merely _reasonable_ in bed? Because that's both incorrect and offensive.'

'Maybe I won't get to remember you in bed at all. Maybe she's going to _Obliviate_ us tomorrow morning and I'll be left wondering why I have tiny bruises on my shoulders and why it feels odd to sit down.'

'That would be a shame for you.'

'Might be better for our chances of working together again.' 

'Is it going to distract you in the office?' He smirks. 'Knowing I'm only one floor under you and I've seen your dick up close?'

'That I can probably handle.'

'You'll _handle_ it?' He raises an eyebrow. 'At work? Risky.'

I ignore his joke. 'Like everything that's happened in the last few days hasn't been risky.' 

The weight of that truth is a bit much and I lower myself onto my back, staring up at the moulded ceiling ornamentation. There are vine patterns sprawling across the expanse, elaborate ceiling roses around every light fixture, the huge chandelier in the middle of the room suspended from a curling wreath of vines and leaves. This ballroom has probably seen it's share of drama. I feel silly for adding to it. Adulthood is such a farce, I still have no idea what I'm doing half the time.

I hear him shift in his seat. 'Everything that's happened has been behind locked doors, Harry, there's been no risk there.'

Just my sanity at stake, then. Right. Awesome. The ceiling offers me no comfort, no matter how hard I try and find some ancient wisdom amongst the patterns.

'Maybe no risk of being found out,' I correct him. 'But it's not exactly in keeping with DMLE policy.'

'It actually doesn't violate it,' he says, and his voice sounds closer. 'Since we work in different departments, technically.' He appears over me, standing at my hip, looking down, his hair falling forward like it's reaching for me. Like it misses me.

Though, maybe I'm overthinking it. Then again, maybe not.

'Our jobs do mean working on the same projects, though.' I wave my hand, taking in the entire property and every place he's touched me since we got here. 

'This isn't exactly an everyday occurance,' he says and steps over me so his ankles are either side of my waist. 'Is it?'

'Probably a good thing, considering,' I say, knowing I haven't been able to concentrate fully on anything other than him since he walked into the Operations Room and pointed his wand at my dick. 

'Best make the most of it while we can, then.' He smirks and drops gracefully to his knees, his thighs squeezing tight at my sides.

Okay, so I’m probably not overthinking it.

'Draco—' I'm about to point out we're not exactly being what anyone would call careful right now, since the doors are open, and everyone is awake and knows where we are. 

Instead, I just have to let him kiss me, because he doesn't really give me a choice, and also because he's right. Maybe we should be making the most of it. Maybe we should be upstairs in bed. I expect no one will look for us until dinner time anyway.

He pulls back a fraction. 'Sorry, what were you going to say?'

'Just that we're not being very careful doing this here with the door wide open.' I don't even think I care though, with him this close. I grab his shirt and pull him back to me and he tastes like tea and biscuits and he's being weirdly gentle and it's all very confusing.

We tangle ourselves on the floor like lovestruck teenagers, and it must be a reasonable amount of time that passes, surely, because by the time it occurs to me to think, I'm hard as fuck and all I want to do is roll him over and hump him ‘til I'm satisfied. Or 'til we both are. It’s almost like this is all happening in the wrong order. This should be first, the stolen moments, sneaking off to make out, hiding from your friends so you can have that one person all to yourself.

That's when we hear the door creak and a clear, curious, voice sings out over the shining pile that's hiding us from… well, maybe getting fired. 

'Harry?' Lisa calls. 'You in here?'

He looks down at me with a smirk, and as I open my mouth to call back to her, he claims it with his own, and I'm distracted for a second before I panic and shove him off me.

'We're just debriefing. What's up?'

'It's lunch time. Stop working, you swot. Leaving in ten minutes.' 

Mill and Lisa had put a few options on the list for today with a question mark, and though I hadn't thought much of it at the time, I'm dead keen for a pint about now. 

I turn to him where he's sprawled next to me, looking sour. 'You want to go to the pub for lunch?' I ask, wondering how he's managed to be offended by me saving our arses from being discovered humping on the floor. 

He raises an eyebrow at me. 'Are you asking me out?'

'No,' I say, too quickly, and this moment, too, should’ve happened before we ended up in bed. And I _should’ve_ been asking him out. 'I figured we'd all go.'

'Fine,' he says, and unfolds himself from the floor, brushing off his trousers. He doesn't look back at me before he walks away, slashing his wand at the shining confidence course so that everything zooms around arranging itself into tidy piles.

I follow him at a safe distance, the loss of intimacy a physical feeling in my chest. He doesn't even look at me when he reaches the threshold. 'I should call Scorpius before we go; I'll likely run out of time, otherwise, before they go to Mini Quidditch this afternoon.'

'Oh,' I feel myself grin in spite of his sudden change in mood. 'Where do you send him? Gin and I looked around London but there wasn't anywhere outdoors and I hate the idea of the boys only being able to fly inside. We wondered about somewhere near The Burrow, but the local witch who used to run it had to take a year off recently and they haven't started back up yet.'

'There's a place in Wiltshire,' he says, heading out of the ballroom and down the corridor toward the stairs.

'Is it good?'

'I'd hardly send my only son there if it wasn't' He gives me a look. 'But to appease your idiotic curiosity, yes, it's very good.'

'Could we—' I stop myself. It's possibly a bit assumptive to ask if James and Al and I can Floo to his house and go with him. Or even to assume he'd be okay with us muscling in on his thing at all. Maybe that's something he usually does with Scorpius, some father-son bonding thing that has been ruined by this bloody house keeping him away from home. I try and think back to whether I've noticed him leave early on a Friday, but our departments are too self-contained and I only really see him at break times and in big meetings.

'Could you what?'

'Sorry, I was going to invite myself along but that's probably a bit inappropriate.'

'To take your children to Quidditch?’ he asks. ‘How could that be inappropriate? Or were you planning on going naked? They do prefer you to be dressed.'

'Ha-ha. I just meant it'd be very forward to assume that was okay with you, maybe it's yours and Scorpius' thing that you do together.'

He sighs. 'Well it's on a Friday afternoon before I finish work, so no, it's not. Feel free to enquire. I'll give you their details.'

'Cool.’ I wonder if I should leave it there but the atmosphere is still weird, so I blabber on. ‘Is there a Floo Point nearby?'

‘There is, but I wouldn't take children through it; it's a bit chaotic. It's one of the heritage ones and it's not big enough so it's always a little too cramped to feel efficient. Or safe. Or comfortable.'

'Right. I guess Gin can Apparate them, then.'

'You can ask, Harry.' He looks over at me with a sigh. 'I think after last night, having you come through my _Floo_ isn't going to be much of a stretch.'

'It wouldn't be me coming through, though,’ I explain. ‘It'd be my ex-wife. Or my ex-mother-in-law or something like that. It'd be a bit awkward.'

'Are you planning on telling either of them about this week?' he asks.

'About us? No.'

'Then isn't it just one colleague helping out another?' He gives me a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and turns at the top of the stairs for the Operations Room and the fireplace. 

I think about these words while I'm changing my clothes and he's calling his son. I consider everything it might mean — all through the ride to the pub, waiting at the bar, ordering our lunch. I sit on it through my first pint, mulling over every half-remembered thing he's done in the last few days. I try and separate the certainties from my own hopeful interpretations, the facts from the feelings. I don't think any of it is a strong suit of mine; I work mainly on feelings, my gut, instinct. But all of that tells me I could have him and all of the facts tell me I'm being crazy to try and make something out of this clusterfuck of uncertainty. I run out of beer and stand up from the table to go and fetch another, not really thinking about anyone else.

'Are you going to the bar?' Draco asks pointedly, turned to look up at me, empty glass in his hand.

'Oh. Yeah, do you want me to get you something?'

'No, I'll come with you. Ladies?' he indicates their own drinks; Mill's Coke Zero nearing empty and Lisa's halfway there.

They request the same again. I pick up the work credit card from the slightly sticky table and lead the way back inside from the beer garden. I can't think of anything to say, I don't even know what they've been talking about while I was zoned out.

'You've gone quiet,' Draco points out while the bartender is pouring our drinks.

'Sorry,' I say, though I'm mostly sorry he noticed. 'You seemed upset with me.'

'You shoved me off you, it was needlessly harsh. And it hurt; your Cushioning Charms are shit.'

'Sorry, I got scared she was going to walk in and find us there.' Even thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Too many things would fall apart if word got out like that, not least our jobs. 'God that would've been embarrassing. She'd never have let me forget it.'

We order and it feels like a long time before he says anything again. I wonder if I've offended him again. 

'Do you feel different away from the house?' he asks eventually. I wonder what he means for a moment, then I click—we're no longer under the influence of the Madam and her insatiable thirst. I'd almost forgotten I had a dick at all, since it hasn't been impaling me or him in the stomach, nor threatening to bore a hole in my trousers.

 _Do_ I feel different? I’d decided not to think about it ‘til I got home but this is probably just as good. Safe. Away from supernatural influences. And the thing is, no, I don't think I do feel different. I'm still confused and worried and curious and he's still really fit. I still know everything I've learned about him in the last few days, everything we've done is still vividly available in my memory. I'm not sure what any of it means, or what I want it to mean, or what to do about the fact that something feels like it’s missing, but the same could be said of an hour ago in the ballroom.

'Nah, not really,' I say, and I don't think I can look directly at him while I think about it because I can see now what this means for tomorrow, when we leave, and I have to go back home to my former wife and our kids and my job and forever hide the truth of what's happened here. 'Except for not being absolutely gagging for it, of course.' I try and laugh and it comes out odd, because I'm pretty sure that was half a lie. If he kissed me here, in the pub, I don't know what I'd do. Possibly just let him.

'It's rather nice to be in charge of one’s own feelings for a change, isn't it?' He leans close as the bartender deposits two Cokes in front of us. 'And one's own cock.'

Feeling the word against my neck is far more affecting than I expected, and the irony isn't lost on me. Maybe he is in control of his own cock, but I suspect, heavily, that he's also still in charge of mine. My Lord and Cockmaester.

'You seemed to have pretty good control of it last night,' I say, unsure why flirting seems to be my instinctive answer for everything with him. 

He laughs, and I relax a little. 'I never lost control of where I wanted to put it,' he says. 'Just how _much_ I wanted to put it somewhere.'

'So, you like where it went?' I turn to him and try and give him a confident, "oh, really?" sort of a look but he's better at this than me and he just stares serenely into my eyes.

'You're not nearly as boring as I assumed you were,' he says, and then our two pints appear and I have to concentrate on paying for them all but I'm left wondering if that was a compliment about him finding me fun or a dig at still actually being a little boring. My hands tremble as I punch in the PIN and the raw truth of his effect on me is right there in the shake of my fingers. 

Back at the table he says nothing flirtatious again, so I can't decide if the accidental brushes of his hand or the pressure of his knee against my leg means what I think it means, so I stay mostly quiet. The others talk about teaching, briefly, then the Quidditch League, then the state of the nation, kids these days, and hilarious things that our nieces, nephews and sons have said in innocence. 

We notice a shift in the mood of our recruits after the meal is done and Draco and I are on our third pints. Raucous laughter from their large tables alongside our smaller one trigger a return to professionalism. The four of us skull our remains and troupe everyone back to the minibuses, the girls taking driving duties again.

Lisa says nothing as we pull out of the parking lot in the older of the two buses, Draco and Millicent behind us in the fancy new one. Their bus has a huge, elaborate stereo system and ours doesn’t, so our recruits are threatening a musical reenactment of something they learned about in Laws, Wars & History. The other bus seems content to have a snooze against the windows. Maybe they’re playing smooth jazz. Maybe Draco cursed them all to be sleepy — both options seem like his style.

'So, Harry,' Lisa says as we hit the open road just outside of the village, our recruits deep in the bridge of _Tiny Dancer_. 'You seem quiet today.'

'I'm tired,' I say, because it's half true. Thinking about Draco is exhausting. About whether I'm mad to consider him an actual viable romantic possibility and not just a lucky fuck in a weird situation. About whether it would make a lick of difference since I’m not a hundred percent sure he wants this to continue. About whether it would even work if he did, since our relationship started with a curse.

'Been up late?' she says, a worryingly curious note in her voice.

'A little.'

'Doesn't look like Draco's been sleeping,' she says, and she sounds smug. Like she's caught me out in a lie. 'Seems like no-one's slept in the nursery at all, actually.'

'He is preternaturally tidy,' I say. 'You remember in Eighth Year — he made it his personal mission to keep the common room looking like those carefully staged photos in the bloody Eton prospectus.'

'Is that what you think is happening?' she asks, and I can feel her particular brand of deception wending through her words. The careful winding of the reel, the dangling of bait. 

'How should I know?' I say. 'Maybe he sleeps standing up like a cow, maybe he sleeps in the bath, maybe he's a vampire and doesn't sleep at all. I don't know what he's doing in his own room. He could be roaming the halls all night, for all I care. We aren't that good of friends.'

'I don't think you're friends at all,' she says, and laughs. 

She _laughs_.

Like it's a ridiculous prospect for him to even be friends with me. My gut turns and I feel foolish for thinking he and I might be able to find something real in all of it. Everything we’ve done so far has been because of the shitty situation we were in and an hour of legitimate flirting at the pub isn’t going to change that. No matter how good it felt to have him next to me.

She looks at me and smiles at my no-doubt miserable expression. Millicent might be the powerhouse of our little group but Lisa is sharp and manipulative and outdid us all in Criminal Psych. This smile, here, is one I've learned never means anything good and right now seems like something especially bad for me. 

And I think it might go deeper than her teasing me to test for a reaction like she was doing before. I think she knows something that makes her sure about how Draco feels about me as a person. How embarrassing to find out the guy you like might not even consider you a casual friend, and in front of my students, no less. Not that they're paying attention — they've started singing bloody _Bohemian Rhapsody_ now.

'What are you going to do with that lot all afternoon?' I ask, hoping that was the last of her torture and needing to talk about literally anything else. 'They're probably not fit for anything dangerous.'

'I thought we might do some role-playing,' she says, accepting the shift in topics. 'Despite appearances, not all of them were drinking. If we group them by who was and wasn't and get them to play through arrests and scenarios involving drunks and revellers, partying teens, people who aren't controlling their magic responsibly…' she fades out as she navigates a sharp turn and I ponder her idea. It does sound cool, but since I've been drinking myself I wouldn't be able to participate, even as a fake "perp". 'They should at least have fun and we'll have ticked everything off the list save for cleaning spells, pack up, and Warding for Muggle Prevention.

'Cool. What do you want me to do?'

'I thought you and Draco might want to spend some quality time together,' she says. I see now why she was okay with changing the subject a second ago — it meant she could lull me into a false sense of security, make me feel some control, and then take it the fuck away again when I least expected it. 'Maybe you two could go for a walk, bake some scones, braid each other's hair.' She just grins when I glare at her. 'Though, I suppose after three pints each you might want to just cuddle up and have a nap. Give each other shoulder massages? Maybe talk about your feelings? Debrief.'

She's mean. I hate her, and she needs to stop being a bitch and—

Hang on. 

If she thinks we're not friends, but she does think we'd want to spend time together — if she's _teasing me_ about us spending time together and not just me following him around like it's a one-sided thing because I thought we were friends — does she think we're more than friends? And what the fuck does she mean, _debrief_? Did she fucking see us in the ballroom? And if she did and she’s telling me to spend more time with him… does that mean it’s not nearly as mad as it seems to want something to come of this?

'I have no fucking idea what you're talking about, but the scones sound like a bloody brilliant idea.'

'Shall I _explain_ what I think is going on?' She sighs. 'Because, honestly, we're running out of time and if I have to throw you in a closet together, I will.'

WHAT. 

'Lisa, you literally dragged me out of the closet last year, what the hell are you on about?'

'Harry. Seriously. Listen to me. I didn't drag you out so you could be boring and miss out on the tastiest ex-bad-boy-cum-daddy-type I've even seen unhindered by a wife.'

'Miss out on what, exactly?' I'm not going to let her coerce me into filling in the blanks for her. If she has a theory, she's going to have to spell it out. 'You’ve just said we're not friends and even if I think we are, I can't see what it has to do with you finding him _tasty_.'

She growls a frustrated little sound and I see her fingers clench white around the steering wheel. 'You're being deliberately obtuse.'

'So are you,' I point out.

'Fine.' She shoots me a swift glare, jaw set and brow low. 'You _like_ him, he likes you, and you have about 24 hours to do something about it and this afternoon is wide open, so stop being a giant pussy, get your shit together and get your fucking dick wet.'

She somehow manages to time her outburst so that her use of the words "fucking dick wet" is broadcast to the entire minibus between falsetto _"Galilieo"_ s. _Bohemian Rhapsody_ grinds to a halt. Silence reigns for all of five seconds before the recruits crack up laughing and I die slightly. She doesn't even look remorseful.

Beelzabub has a devil put aside for me and her name is Lisa Turpin.


	14. Let me in

**_Draco_ **

After what Millicent said on the way back from the pub, I'm not sure if things really are awkward now that Harry and I are alone again, or if it's just me. I don't even know if it matters either way; I can't imagine acting on her advice is going to be especially fruitful. Thinking about it is making me tense. The idea of Harry and me together was less uncomfortably real when it was just me wondering, without a couple of very wily women watching how it plays out. 

Come to think, what if Lisa was having a similar conversation with Harry in _their_ minibus? It'd make sense if they attacked from both sides, and he does look kind of annoyed, distracted. I can't imagine Lisa has lost any of her youthful forthrightness by going through Auror training with a bunch of Gryffindor boys. Maybe I should be glad I rode with Millicent. Her lecture was short and to the point. 

Pity it wasn't more informative. I still have no idea what he's after, since neither did she, but she's at least convinced me to not write it off quite yet. Not write _him_ off. Us. Malfoy and Potter. Ferret and Scarhead. Draco and Harry. Mr and Mr Malfoy-Potter. Dad and Dad. Widower and Divorcee. Desk-bound Curse-Breaker and ex-Auror turned teacher. The media would lose their collective shit over it, even this long after the war. He's not exactly a recluse; even as his fame waned, his wife's was only just beginning. Ex-wife's. An important distinction, indeed.

When we got back, he'd followed me into the kitchen almost mindlessly at the suggestion of tea and said very little while I made it. He seemed to think we were going back into the bedroom with our cups, which sparked a grain of hope in my chest, but seemed far keener to drink it in the Operations Room, in front of the fire. It's quiet in the upstairs corridor as we make our way there, the noise of the recruits outside not quite making it through the glazing.

From that, I can assume _they_ wouldn't hear _us_ if _we_ were noisy. And since Millicent's been putting ideas in my head, getting noisy with him this afternoon is definitely something I'm thinking about. Even if it leads to nothing but a little heartache and an inability to sit down comfortably.

'Anything you need to do this afternoon?' I ask, and we set our cups down on the table in front of the fire. It sounds innocuous enough, and not at all like I'm asking if he wants to have another go at my arse.

'Not really.' He sighs and drops himself into an armchair. 'I should probably go for a run or something, but not so soon after that risotto.' He picks up his tea and holds it up to his face, breathing in the steam. His gaze latches onto the dancing flame, and he stares. I can't tell if he's avoiding looking at me or if he's just tired.

'We could go for a walk instead?' I suggest, and he shoots a frown at me, which seems disproportionate to the suggestion when he's already contemplating a run. 'Or not, it's quite alright. We needn't spend any time together at all.'

'No, it's fine,' he says, turning back to the fire. 'We could, er, do something else. Duel?'

 _'Duel?'_ We haven't done that since Eighth Year, and that was a token gesture to realign my wand. The time before that, he almost killed me, I almost hit him with an Unforgivable, and before that we were twelve and I threw a snake at him. 'Should we, when we've been drinking?'

'Are you drunk?'

'I'm not _not_ drunk,' I say. 'An easy stroll about the grounds is definitely going to be safer than duelling.'

'Fine. Close combat sparring?' His mouth quirks up at the corner. 'There are mats in case you feel woozy and fall over.'

'Why does it have to be something violent? I can't expect sparring's a good idea after three pints, either. I don't fancy being punched in the face.'

He shrugs. 'Then don't let me punch you in the face.'

'Why are you trying to fight me?' I ask him.

He just stares into the flames for a second before huffing some sort of sad-arse laugh and sipping at his tea.

'I don't know,' he says. 'You're probably the only one here who can beat me in a duel. Seems a shame to not try it. At least it’d feel a bit more normal for us. Besides, sneaking off to bed isn't an option at this time of day.'

I wonder if I should be reading into that. I feel like I should. I want to. I want him to be thinking of sneaking off to bed _with me_ , for the purpose of tearing my clothes off and not just sneaking off to bed for a nap.

'Going to bed would probably also be safer,' I grumble. It'd also be more fun, I add in my head.

'Well then,' he says, and he stares hard at his tea. 'If you win, we can do that too.'

This, I think, deserves to be read into. Is perhaps _meant_ to be read into, on the basis that no-one offers a _nap_ as a reward. No-one under ninety. No-one who's been ticking things off a sexual bingo card with me for the last however many days. I feel confident. Almost. I might just feel scared and not care anymore. 

I don't want to go back to nothing tomorrow because we're both being too bloody British to talk about anything.

I decide to be bold.

'If I win, I want that blowjob you owe me.'

He blinks over at me for a second and I'm floored, again, by how pretty he is. He really shouldn't be allowed to have eyelashes like that. His gaze flicks back to his tea and he takes another sip, making me wait, the prick. He swallows, and I watch his throat move, imagining him swallowing _me_ and something blooms in my stomach, a giddiness that feels strangely innocent considering what sparked it.

'And if I win?' he asks, still looking into his cup. 'What will you do for me?'

_Oh, thank fuck._

'We've been through this. Blanket consent. I told you, anything.'

'You don't have boundaries?' He frowns a little.

'I'm willing to give things a go before making judgements,' I say. 'Some people would find a can-do attitude admirable instead of distasteful.'

'I don't find it distasteful,' he says. 'Just surprising. You always seem so controlled.'

'Yes, well.' I consider how far to push him. How much truth to tell. 'Maybe I've never met anyone who could take control for me.'

'And you think _I_ could?' He huffs a disbelieving sound.

He's utterly delusional if he thinks people don't trip over themselves to do what he wants, even now. He could've been the most popular Head Auror the DMLE had ever seen but instead, like me, he prioritised his family and won over the rest with his "strong moral fibre". I'd do anything he told me to, probably. Of course, everything I can think of right now is filthy and of course I'd do it. So I guess if he wants to get physical, whether with magic or muscle, I should stop pretending I'm going to turn him down.

'Let's duel,' I say, setting my cup down, almost entirely untouched. 'Maybe we'll find out.'

'Okay,' he says, and he puts his cup down beside mine. 

I think that might be as far as we get. I've not really thought ahead, so when he stands and moves away from the hearth, I almost wonder what I've got myself in for. There's a reasonable chance my wand will still like him too much to really do anything against him. Not that it makes a difference; apparently no matter who wins, it's still heading to the bedroom after.

He flicks his wand and the rows of benches stack themselves against the far wall, leaving a wide space in the centre of the room. A large circle comes into view. It's probably been on the floor the whole time — it's obvious enough now that I wonder at not seeing it earlier. Though, to be fair, I didn't know they'd built a sparring ring into the house, or I might've been on the lookout. It seems a bit over the top for a facility only used a couple of times a year, but I guess that's just him. Always slightly more than necessary. I smirk at the memory of his heavy cock in my hand, another shining example of my theory.

'Can I finish my tea first?' I ask, as he sets up containment wards around the painted circumference of the circle.

'Do you want to be weighed down by it?' he replies, not looking around at me, and with another swish of holly, a large circular mat bursts out of a wardrobe in the corner, laying itself out on the floor. It looks serious. And comfortable. More comfortable than the ballroom floor and a sad cushioning charm had been earlier. A sick part of me reflects that the rubber mat would be easy to clean and and I'm assaulted with images, memories, of him under me.

'Valid point,' I admit. 'Shall we then?'

I rise out of my chair and find myself strangely nervous. I feel like we've reached a point where we've admitted enough that we should be talking it out, expressing our feelings, suggesting maybe that we go on a date or something. Instead we're fighting it out in the ring and not acknowledging that we've at least agreed that we'd like to sleep together again. 

'That's what we decided,' he says, and he steps into the ring, kicking his shoes off to the side.

'Yes,' I untie my laces and leave my own by my chair. 'Apparently we couldn't come up with anything better to do than have another wand fight.'

'I believe I suggested going to bed,' he says, looking over at me like all this, the ring, the duel, was all my idea. Bastard.

'No,' I say. 'You didn't. You said going to bed _wasn't an option_.' I step onto the mat, planting my feet wide, right in front of left.

He shrugs, smirks. 'You could've disagreed with me.' He drops easily into a combat stance, something relaxed, not overly aggressive, and as such, completely misleading. I've seen him drop two recruits from this position with barely a word. 'You usually do.'

'And yet.' I gesture at myself, our surroundings. The fact that we're squared off in a duelling ring, in a fighting stance, surrounded by sophisticated warding. 'Here I am being agreeable.'

'Maybe I don't want you to be agreeable.'

I don't say anything, I just shoot a wordless Jelly-Legs at his knees and watch him crumble, recover, and counter before rolling to the side, wand raised, a shield glowing between us for a moment.

'Why not?' I press him, watching for an indication he's about to retaliate. 'Most people prefer me to not curse them.'

'I feel like this is where we were for a lot of our lives. On opposite sides of a fight.' He flicks his wand and I deflect something orange into the wards. 'Now it's different, and it's confusing.'

Maybe I was wrong that we weren't going to talk about our feelings. Maybe we're going to do that _and_ fight.

'So we're _duelling_ ' — I toss a rebounding hex at his feet — 'because you can't handle us getting along?'

He jumps to the side to avoid being hit and slashes blue light at my legs, twice, before aiming right for my head and forcing me to duck. 'It's odd to go from one extreme to the other,' he says. 'I feel like we missed a step.'

'And you think the step we missed is duelling? Because I can think of more logical progressions between you ignoring me at work and you getting on your knees for me.'

'I don't ignore you at work,' he frowns, offended. 'I don't even _see_ you at work.'

'I see _you_ , which proves your terrible observation skills, ex-Auror Potter.' I throw a mirage at him, a snake for old time's sake, and he flinches but recognises it for what it is and swipes his wand through it with a wry grin. 

He looks like he's enjoying himself and I wonder if I've misinterpreted this. Perhaps it's not meant to be violent, and he just wants to play with me in a context that represents our childhood relationship. To do the things we might've done if this whole thing with the Madam hadn't happened. Like maybe we'd have met in the sparring room at the DMLE, or in the lap pool, or had too much to drink at Christmas and played darts or something at the pub. Something normal. A more legitimate beginning to something meaningful.

I wonder if he sees it that way, laid out and detailed and logical or if he's just instinctively lurching around, looking for something that feels right. 

'Does it prove I'm unobservant or does it prove your tendency to Disillusion yourself and hide in a corner watching me?' He arches a brow and swirls his wand, vanishing in a ripple of displaced nothingness. I make it rain, and the shape of him is obvious as it comes toward me. I Apparate into the space directly at his back and wrap my arms around his chest, pulling him off balance and dragging him to the floor.

I pin him face down and straddle his arse, leaning in next to his ear. 'I doubt you do anything worth watching in the privacy of your office… Though I'd come and visit you if you want to remedy that.'

He wriggles under me, flexing his hips in a way I find… inspiring.

'We're not having sex in my office,' he growls.

'We're not having sex here either, which seems an awful pity.' I grind my hips against him.

'Why does fighting lead to sex in your head? Is there something we need to talk about?' he asks and I laugh, since all this was his doing. 

'There are countless things we need to talk about, Harry, but let's start somewhere simple, shall we?' I lick at the shell of his ear. 'Do you surrender?'

'Maybe soon.'

'Really? Because you've been terrible so far at getting on your knees.'

'I told you I'd be bad at it. Never done it before.' He winks over his shoulder at me, and I want to pound him in every way. Then he's gone, and I'm hitting the floor, and I'm left wondering how the hell he Apparated out from under me when he couldn't move.

I decide to stop fucking around. Whatever the reason we're doing this, it's clearly not the endgame, and I'm tired of waiting, and it's messing with my head to be both concentrating on defending myself, attacking him, and growing more and more aroused. 

My back is exposed so I move quickly, Conjuring a flock of starlings over my shoulder and rolling out from under them and onto my feet. While he's avoiding them, I send a modified _Engorgio_ at his shoes, then his trousers, so that they'll get progressively, imperceptibly bigger over the next few minutes. It'll make him feel slightly clumsy and he won't know why. He'll hate it. I almost feel bad for him.

Because the thing is, he's duelled for a living. _But._ He hasn't duelled _me_ in a long time. I’m a Curse-Breaker now, as well as his life-long nemesis, and recently, lover. I know all his weak spots, and I know curses he hasn't heard of. 

So I do my worst. Two spells in quick succession; one to dim the lights and one to give me night vision. A third gives him vertigo, and I see him sway in the dark, and throw a ball of light in the air. I send a _Lubrio_ at his wand hand, then his cock, and then I disarm him with his own favourite spell. He smiles at that, and I swear he's mad, but this is also the most fun I've had in a long time, and I'm not going to stop now. 

'Do you surrender?' I ask him, not dropping my stance, just in case.

'Not easily,' he says and holds his hand out toward me. His slicked wand twitches in my grip and I take a step toward him, following its tug, using the momentum to spin and catch it with my other hand as it slips from my fingers. He's on my back immediately, his foot pushing at my knee and tumbling us both to the ground. He catches himself on all fours above me, and I turn over, expecting a third wand at my throat somehow, or his hand at least, but instead he leans in and kisses me, and I can't breathe for it.

The adrenaline and the lust crash together in my chest and squeeze everything else out. I can't talk, I can't think. I don't know if he's distracting me for another attack or if he's going to keep kissing me. I do know there's something solid pressing against my stomach, and he's pushing his fingers into my hair, and I'm utterly lost on him. 

He pulls away.

His weight lifts off me, the solid something on my stomach sliding away. His hands run down to my waist. Fingertips reach under my waistband. With my last available brain cell, I throw a Locking Charm at the door with both our wands and hear the door shudder under the force.

I'm annoyed at myself for wearing jeans and having to wait for him to undo the button and the zip and fuss with my pants, when something less complicated would mean his mouth was on me already, but then it is and I have to concentrate on gulping air into my lungs and not thrusting up into his throat and choking him. 

This might be his first go, but his mouth is hot and soft, and he obviously knows what he likes, because he doesn't hesitate to lick hard into my slit, and I swear under my breath, and he laughs, warm air dancing over my wet skin. I grab him by the hair and twist until he puts his teeth away again and sinks back on to me.

It's not elegant or practised or perfect, but it's fucking well _him_ , burying his face in my trousers in the pink light of a very public, very Ministry-owned, very dangerous room to be doing this in. It ups the stakes to a point where I'm far closer than I should be in a far quicker time than I'm proud of, and I'm pulling him off me, kissing him hard, and coming in his hand in a matter of minutes, my mouth pressed against his through to the last quake of my hips.

He smirks at me panting, smug, and wafts a wandless _Scourgify_ over the two of us. He looks unbearably handsome.

'Lord, you'll be the end of me,' I breathe. Too candid, too close.

His smile widens. 'You won the duel. I think you're safe from me.'

'That's not what I meant and you know it,' I blurt, the haze of my afterglow making me reckless and brave. 'Look at you — coming in here with your hideous tracksuits and your scruffy beard and being all competent and fuckable and acting like none of this means a fucking thing to you.' I push his hair off his face, a subconscious tenderness I can't bring myself to hold in anymore. 'I'm probably only the second person you've ever slept with. Does that matter? Or are you just going to walk away and never think of me again?'

'I can't _stop_ thinking of you, you dickhead,' he says, and rolls his eyes. 'And not because you're the second person I've slept with. Because—' He hesitates, some internal struggle going on behind his eyes. 'Because you're the only person who's listened to me or shown me any sort of affection in a long time without wanting anything from me in return.'

'Well that's not true at all.' I raise a brow at him. 'I very definitely want something from you.'

The corner of his mouth twitches and the awkwardness is gone. 'Well. Good. I want something from you too.'

He doesn't elaborate, just looks down at me, studying my face until my ears get hot and my neck prickles and it's a whole different kind of awkward.

'Are you going to tell me what it is?'

'I'm not very good at explaining with words. Can we just…?' He grins and leans in to kiss at my collarbone, licking into the hollow of my throat.

'Yes, excellent start to a relationship, not talking about our feelings, let's do that, shall we? Tell me — your gravestone — do you want it grey or white? I'd like mine white, do you want to match? Maybe they can bury us together, petrified in an act of violence due to my extreme frustration and your general idiocy.'

'Is this is a start of a relationship?' he asks. 

'If it isn't, I'm _Obliviating_ you, and then myself, and we can live like none of this ever happened.'

‘I feel like this isn’t how it’s meant to go.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well. I feel like this all happened under some really weird circumstances, and we’ve done everything out of order.’

‘I’d have to agree. I think I should have gotten that blowjob a long time ago. Seems dreadfully unfair you’d get to go first.’

‘I did offer last night,’ he points out, before his brow furrows again. ‘Don’t you worry that it’s the wrong way to start something? That we’re going to look back and realise it was all just a curse and we were never meant to be together?’

‘No?’ I see, now, what’s been keeping him in his head all morning. I guess there’s a certain sort of naivety that comes from meeting your wife when you’re eleven, your two best friends getting married and living happily ever after, and never having a family to compare yourself to. ‘Think about it this way: if they wrote a book of our lives, would it be only about the last four days?’

‘No,’ he laughs. ‘It would start at Madam Malkin's, before first year, when we met. When you were a pompous little tit who wouldn’t stop talking about himself.’

‘Okay, let’s maybe not start it when we’re minors, since it’s a pretty explicit book at this point. What if we start with Sixth Year, when you were following me around?’

‘When I almost killed you?’

‘We’ve had better bathroom experiences since then.’

‘Are you sure this isn’t completely backwards and insane? It feels like it’s come together in the wrong order.’

‘But it _did_ come together.’

'Fine.' He kisses a line under my jaw, and I wonder where he's been hiding, this soft version of Harry. 'But I think we should probably think about getting ourselves some very robust couples therapy.'

'I'm okay with that.' I turn my head to give him better access to my neck. 'My therapist is actually kind of amazing.'

'Good, that's really good,' he murmurs, shifting his knee so he's straddling me, his mouth leaving a wet trail up my neck. 'I’ve been seeing someone for a while, as well, it really helps.' He plants a kiss on the very edge of my cheekbone.

'We're ridiculous together,' I sigh, wondering if it matters. 'People are going to think we're mental, no matter how this happened.'

He props himself on his elbows, looking down at me. 'Either that or we’re under a spell, or a love potion, or you've _Imperioed_ me.'

'I thought you could resist _Imperio_? And why would _you_ not have _Imperioed me_?'

He huffs a laugh. His voice is sarcastic but there's a sadness in there too. 'You're the Baby Death Eater, and I'm the nation's darling. What did you expect?' 

There'll be a lot to deal with. People having opinions; the media, the public, the most private parts of being who we are will be under scrutiny. Add to that, friends, families, and three small children who won't know what the hell is going on.

'Chaos,’ I say. ‘Unbridled mania. Insanity.'

He grins, mischievous and alive.

'I think we can probably live up to that.'


	15. EPILOGUE: This house has many hearts

**_Harry_ **

'What the fuck is taking him so long?' Millicent slams the boot shut on our gear and glares toward the house. 'Go find Draco, would you, Harry? I'm in no state for his piss-arsing about. We have to get going before nine or the traffic’s going to be shit.'

 _I'm_ in no state to be alone with him, since any sort of privacy seems to lead immediately to touching, and we have several hours of driving ahead of us, in separate buses, before we can safely do that. At his place. After his son is in bed. And I've had a talk to Gin about it. Hopefully. If nothing goes wrong. Which it might. In this state of heightened semi-arousal I'm just as likely to hold him up more as I am to hurry him along.

Regardless of this, or perhaps because of it, I go back inside. He's nowhere I expect to find him. I call out. I worry. I cast _Homenum Revelio_ and follow my wand to the kitchen.

'Draco?'

A muffled voice replies, and my gaze falls on the pock-marked pantry door, the cleaver still resolutely embedded deep in the wood.

Shit.

'Are you okay?' I call through the door.

'I'm locked in the fucking pantry, Potter, what do you think? Get me out.' I hear the fatigue in his voice and I kind of want to hug him. I’m allowed to now, after yesterday. Though still not in public. 'And don't bother with unlocking charms, I've tried literally all of them.'

No surprises charms didn't work, really, after the week we've had. 'Last time we got out without magic. You know. With a confession.'

'I've confessed every imaginable sin already,' he says through the door. 'I'm all out of ideas. Maybe I should perform all new sins so I can confess to something fresh and exciting.'

'Well…' I ponder the motive of it all. 'Maybe it's not a confession if no one's there to hear it?'

'I guess.' He goes quiet for a moment. 'Though, haven't we been operating on the assumption that _she's_ the one listening.'

'Yes, but, if you think about it, _we've_ also been there every time, listening. So, maybe you need to confess to me?'

He sighs and I hear a thunk that might be his head against the door. 'Must I?'

He's like a teenage girl. More so than the one I actually dated who grew up with six brothers and was better than me at Quidditch. Is this what men were talking about all those years? About women being melodramatic? I've no idea. Hermione and Luna aren't exactly normal, either. And the women that adulthood has given me are all trained combat machines. 'You could try confessing to Millicent instead,' I suggest. 'I can go get her for you?'

'No, it's fine. You can just kill me instead.'

'I'd rather not orphan your son. Besides, I actually like you, remember?'

'Yes, well, I like you too.'

The door makes a tiny sound between us, a squeak, like something turned.

'Did you hear that?' he asks through the heavy wood.

'I did,' I say, and it makes a sick kind of sense, considering what's happened over the week. 'I think she likes that we like each other.'

'Well, like me harder, Harry, the door isn't open yet.'

'To be fair, I do like you harder…'

'Thanks, that's tasteful.' His sarcasm is audible through the door. 'I'm sure she's really just after a good, solid dick joke.'

'She's steered us pretty well clear of tasteful, to be fair.'

'Well,' he says and I imagine I can hear his smirk. 'She steered me to you, so obviously she has no taste at all.'

We've been sort-of officially a thing for less than 19 hours and apparently we've reached the comfortable mockery stage already. Brilliant. Who needs a honeymoon phase anyway?

'What happened to confessing that you like me? Being nice was actually working.'

'I'm not that nice, it turns out.'

'I think you are,' I say.

He's quiet for a moment. 'Perhaps I'm only nice to you.'

The door squeaks again.

'I am,' he says, louder. 'I am very definitely only nice to you because you're special and I like you.'

Another squeak. I hear him rattle the knob, look down, and see it make a quarter turn before it sticks there. 

'Harry?'

'Yeah?'

'I think you're really handsome, I really like the way you look with stubble, and—' he cuts off as the knob turns another few degrees before sticking again. ' _Bollocks_.'

'You like my bollocks?'

'I do. Of course I do.' Flattering, but he sounds like he might agree to anything right now. 'They're… very evenly balanced. A reasonable size. And your skin is very soft — do you moisturise?'

'No…' I frown as the thought turns over in my head. 'Should I?'

'Okay, that isn't working. Let's stop talking about your genitalia. What if I told you I think that you're a good father? And I… I really like how committed you are to your family even though the thought of you living with your pregnant ex-wife is going to drive me insane with jealousy?'

The door knob twitches and my face heats and it's almost a bit much. 'Yeah, keep going,' I say.

'I think you're good at your job — kind of excellent, really. I liked watching you, the other day,' he says, then I hear him laugh. 'I probably liked watching a bit too much, in fact, but I swear, despite being Disillusioned, I didn't actually wank over you in light grey joggers. Though maybe I'll revisit my memories of it later. They don't leave much to the imagination.'

'I'd have thought you'd've hated them.'

'So did I,' he admits, 'but you have a spectacular arse and it turns out they're nice and easy to take off.'

'Er, thanks?' My face is very, very warm, but the door is still very, very shut. 'I don't think she's quite as into the sexual confessions, though. Maybe go back to telling me I'm pretty or something.'

'You're _so_ pretty I could just die here in this pantry thinking about it,' he says.

'You actually might, you know. It's been almost ten minutes since Millicent sent me to come and find you. She was already in a mood.'

'Well, what are we going to do? I've already laid my thoughts about you on the table. You've run out of good points for me to mention. Do you have any I don't know yet? Are you remarkably good at baking?'

'I am, actually,’ I tell him. ‘Though it reminds me of being a child slave so I don't do it often.'

'Well that got dark. How about some nice sunshine-y romantic ideas? Something a bit Hufflepuffy.' 

I search my brain for inspiration and remember something from one of Lisa’s magazines the other day. 'Apparently there's a series of 36 questions that can make you fall in love with anyone. Are you willing to risk it?'

'Sounds suspiciously like some _Witch Weekly_ tripe Pansy's to blame for,’ he says, and he’s not far off. ‘Proceed.'

'I don't remember them all, but I think one of them was about what you would run back in to save in a fire, assuming your family and pets were all outside already.'

'Harry, I would absolutely never run into a fire. You of all people should understand that.'

'I do.’ I really, really do. ‘But some things might be more important than fear.'

'Fine, what would you rescue from the flaming death trap of your old, dusty, wooden house?'

'I, er.’ What would I save? I don’t have much that’s irreplaceable. ‘Maybe a photo album? One that a friend of mine put together of my parents when they were younger. Some of it goes as far back as Hogwarts when they were there. A bunch from their wedding, a holiday they took somewhere sunny. Friends, Order meetings. Some photos of them with me as a baby.’ The more I think about it, the more sure I am. ‘I think I’d take that, since it’s all I have of them. I’d like my boys to at least know what their grandparents looked like.’

Draco sighs, and his voice is clear through the wood. 'Well, that's it then. I'm in love with you.'

The door jerks and swings open, squeaking innocently on its hinges as it reveals Draco standing there, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. 

I catch his eye. 'I feel like you could've started with that and saved us a whole bunch of time.' It comes out surprisingly normal considering I'm one hundred percent freaking out on the inside. 

'I swear, I—' He stops, takes a breath. 'Okay. Just a bit, maybe. Not like, a weird amount. I'm not going to, I don't know, stalk you or anything. _Fuck_.'

'What?' I had half-expected him to scoff at the fact that that had worked and comment on how gullible she was. Not… explain exactly what he meant, like he actually meant it. 'Do you really—?'

'Well,' he flicks his eyes to the side. 'I didn't think so. I mean… I wasn't sure, but… She doesn't seem to react to untruths, and the door is very definitely open, so… I guess?'

'You guess?' 

'It's been less than a week, Harry, be reasonable. I'm hardly going to be _completely_ gone on you. You're not that bloody fantastic.' 

'You should probably get out of the pantry before you take it back completely and she locks you in again,' I say.

He sounds almost defensive and the rush of warmth in my chest is… worrying. And unexpected. But mostly, _ohmyfuckinggod._

'That's not what I meant,' he says, and he steps clear of the doorway, towards me. He comes close. 'I don't want to take it back, I just want to make sure you know I'm not secretly obsessed with you or anything. I'm not some fanboy weirdo acting innocent while plotting our wedding.'

'Okay.'

'You're upset with me.' He sighs.

'I'm not.'

'You feel upset with me.'

'If I was upset with you, don't you think I'd know?'

We bicker all the way back outside, 'til the atmosphere almost feels normal again (except for the fact that Draco fucking Malfoy kind-of loves me, a little bit). We're greeted by the two minibuses full of recruits and our colleagues standing between them. Everyone seems to have been waiting. Marco is leaning against his window, grinning. 

'Hola! You are out of food closet!' he says against the glazing, and it takes me a while to process his muffled words.

Draco works faster, turning on Millicent. 'Why does he know where I was?'

'I have no idea what the kid's talking about. I would never have assumed you were still in the closet.'

'I absolutely don't believe you're innocent,' he says, his jaw twitching.

'Well,’ she says. ‘That seems irrelevant.'

'How is it irrelevant that you knew I was locked in the pantry, and you left me there?'

'I sent Harry in — and look — you're out of the closet, aren't you? Together.' She grins. 'I'd count that as a win for everyone.'

I look around and see several more gleeful faces pressed against the bus windows along with Marco. They're all watching the argument play out. They seem very invested in what's being said… Lisa, off to my right, looks smug, which is usually a sign of mischief. Mill just looks righteous, which is always a worry. I'm getting an inkling of something. Draco looks livid, which probably means he's thinking the same thing I am, and we're all about to hear about it.

'You lot…' he growls, and I try to not find it attractive. 'You hideous, meddling bastards. I swear, I— You're—'

'All Aurors?' Mill finishes his sentence. 'And not nearly as unobservant as you would've liked? And sick of you two staring at each other all the time?'

'Arseholes,' Draco supplies. 'I was going to say "arseholes".'

'You're welcome,' she says. 

'We were doing fine without you,' he says. 

'Er, actually, Draco,' I say, and I wonder where I'm finding the inclination to argue. 'It's kind of better if they all know. I have enough secrets. I don't want you to be one of them.'

He looks over at me like I've just returned his confession, and I guess in a certain light it's a significant thing to go public. But this… feels fine. Not like something I need to keep hidden. Not from these people. I smile, and shrug, and his forehead smooths out. 

'Ugh,' he groans. 'Fine.'

Millicent claps her hands together. 'Excellent. Now get the fuck on board so we can all go home.'

From inside the fancy new minibus comes a familiar melody as someone turns up the enormous stereo, and I smile, recognising it. I wonder how familiar Draco is with Queen's Greatest Hits and if he'll get all twitchy when he realises what song this is. I bump my shoulder against his in parting and he gives me a worried smile. I walk over toward Lisa and the old bus, and as the first lines of _Somebody To Love_ blast out the bus windows behind me, I think, perhaps, I might've found him already.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


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